


don't get caught up in caution when love exists

by twinedjupiters



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Setting, Complete, F/M, Pre-Canon Canon Divergence, Prompt Fic, Slow Burn, betrothal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-14 13:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19274491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinedjupiters/pseuds/twinedjupiters
Summary: “After the end of Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, it was decided that the best way to keep such a thing from happening again was to have his son and heir raised here at Winterfell where he could be brought up to be loyal to the crown and the mainland. And it was also decided that the best way to ensure that loyalty remains even after he leaves here was to have him marry into our family.”It had taken Sansa a moment, but a wave of horror had rushed over her as she’d realized what her mother was saying. “I have to marryTheon?”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a prompt I got from tumblr user kathe-is-a-shipper. It was supposed to be a drabble prompt, but it sort of got away from me.
> 
> I can be found on tumblr at twinedjupiters.
> 
> Title from "Shelter" by Dermot Kennedy.

Sansa has only vague memories of the day Theon Greyjoy arrived in Winterfell. She was very small at the time, only about three years old, and he hadn’t paid her much attention. He had been introduced to the Stark children in the courtyard and had quickly passed over Sansa and her sister -- an infant still in their mother’s arms -- in favour of her older brothers, closer to his age. She doesn’t remember if he seemed nervous at first, but she does remember later that day when the boys chased her through the Godswood with wooden swords, cackling as she cried.

Older brothers can be cruel like that, but Theon Greyjoy is not her brother and she hasn’t cared for him much ever since.

Her memory of finding out about their betrothal is much more vivid. It’s not that it had been a secret, just that no one had felt the need to explain it to her while she was still too young to understand. That had changed, though, at the age of eight.

She’d been in her chamber, sitting before her vanity with her mother behind her braiding her hair. Old Nan had told her a new fairy tale that day about a Targaryen prince and the common girl he had given up his throne for. It was all so romantic and Sansa had stars in her eyes as she recounted it to her mother.

“I will marry a prince someday,” she’d declared dreamily. She could see it in her mind’s eye -- the beautiful dress she would wear, the great Sept in King’s Landing, all the Lords and Ladies looking on. It was almost enough to make her swoon.

She was so caught up in her daydreams she hadn’t even noticed her mother’s hands momentarily still. Catelyn had sighed and made quick work of finishing up Sansa’s hair.

“Come sit,” she’d said, moving towards the bed and sitting on the edge, patting the space next to her. Sansa did as she’d been told, looking up at her mother with expectant eyes. “There’s something I need to speak to you about.”

“What is it, Mother?” Sansa had asked, watching her mother curiously.

Catelyn sighed again. “Do you know what a betrothal is?”

Sansa had cocked her head to the side, confused. “No.”

“It’s an engagement,” Catelyn had explained. “When two people are betrothed, it means they are to be married someday.”

“Oh,” Sansa had replied, still with no idea of what was coming. “Will I be betrothed one day?”

Catelyn had paused for a moment before answering, “You already are.”

Sansa hadn’t understood. No one had ever mentioned this to her before and it seemed strange that she could be betrothed without even knowing it. “How?”

“Well,” Catelyn had begun. “Sometimes, fathers will betrothe their children to each other while they’re still young in order to secure an alliance between their houses. The marriage may not take place for years, but the promise of it is enough to bind them together.”

Sansa was still confused. “But what about love?”

Catelyn’s eyes had softened at this. “Love takes time,” she’d told Sansa. “It’s something to be built over the years. Your father and I hardly knew each other when we were married, but we love each other very much now.”

“You and Father were betrothed before you were married?” Sansa had asked.

Catelyn had smiled gently and nodded. “We were.”

Sansa still hadn’t quite been sure how she felt about the prospect, but knowing that her parents’ marriage had begun in a similar way was certainly a relief. Still, though, she would have preferred the stuff of a bard’s song.

“But if I’m already betrothed,” Sansa had wondered, the true implications of her mother’s words setting in. “Who am I to marry?”

Here Catelyn had paused again, the warm smile brought forth by the thought of her husband sliding off her face. “After the end of Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, it was decided that the best way to keep such a thing from happening again was to have his son and heir raised here at Winterfell where he could be brought up to be loyal to the crown and the mainland. And it was also decided that the best way to ensure that loyalty remains even after he leaves here was to have him marry into our family.”

It had taken Sansa a moment, but a wave of horror had rushed over her as she’d realized what her mother was saying. “I have to marry _Theon_?”

“Not for a long time yet,” Catelyn had assured her. “Not for years and years. You’re still both just children.”

This had been of little solace to Sansa. “Does it have to be me? Can’t it be Arya?”

Catelyn had placed a soothing hand on Sansa’s back and replied, “Arya wasn’t yet born when the arrangement was made. And you are your father’s eldest daughter. You have a duty to your house.”

“To marry Theon?” she’d asked miserably.

“As I said,” Catelyn had told her. “It won’t be for years yet. You’d do best to put it out of your mind for now.”

This had been easier said than done, of course. She hasn’t been able to look at Theon the same way since that day, even now, nearly ten years later. They don’t talk about it often -- in fact, they avoid each other as much as they can -- but when they are forced to acknowledge their betrothal it’s grudging and awkward, neither of them happy with their situation.

Perhaps Sansa should be offended that Theon doesn’t want her for a wife, but she’s much too relieved to care. The only chance she has of ever breaking this engagement is if he wants out of it, too. Even then, she knows, it’s a long-shot.


	2. Chapter 1

If there’s one thing Theon has learned since coming to Winterfell more than ten years ago, it’s that the Northerners are a harsh, serious people. The Ironborn are harsh, too, but at least they know how to have a good time. The North does have its moments, though, and one of them is the Dawn Festival. It had been a long winter, but the white ravens of the Citadel had arrived a little over a month ago. Spring is upon them and it’s time to celebrate.

This was only Theon’s second winter and his first in the North. Even if he’d been in Winterfell, though, he’d have been too young to enjoy the festival at the time. He’s making the most of it now, though. Noble families from all over the North have descended upon Winterfell for a full fortnight of feasting and drinking and fun. 

But it’s not just the castle that’s filled with guests. Wintertown is bustling as well, the Dawn Festival spilling out to the commonfolk as it always does. There’s a large market set up in the centre of town, the inns are fully booked, and the brothel is seeing more business than it has in years. Of course, Theon has been a frequent visitor there all winter.

He’s on his way back to the castle now, with the stars above him, feeling sleepy but satisfied. His coin purse is a bit lighter but a tumble with Roz is always worth the charge. 

He enters the courtyard to find it mostly empty but for the few guards stationed around the walls. They ignore him as he urges his horse towards the stable before dismounting and handing her off to one of the grooms. It’s only the first night of the festival but already the sounds of merry-making can be heard, spilling out of the Great Hall where the Starks are hosting their guests.

He turns, intending to go in and join the party, but pauses when he sees the figure sitting in the training yard, sharpening a sword.

Jon Snow is the bastard son of Eddard Stark, fathered somewhere in the south during Robert’s Rebellion and brought back to Winterfell when the fighting was done to be raised with Lord Stark’s other children. No one knows who his mother is, though there are plenty of rumours about barmaids and fishermen’s wives and even the Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall. Theon has never given much thought to Jon’s mother, however, too preoccupied with who his father is.

He’ll never admit it out loud, but more than once Theon has wished to be a son of Lord Stark. His memories of his own father are vague but not flattering for the Lord of the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy is a cruel man, more concerned with his own power than his children’s well-being. Theon will never forget the sound of his mother wailing when she was given the news that her two oldest sons had died fighting their father’s war or the cold look on Balon’s face when he’d delivered it. He’ll never forget the way he’d turned his head, not even bothering to look Theon in the eye as the decision to send his last living son to Winterfell had been made.

Lord Stark has been a better father to Theon than Balon Greyjoy was ever interested in being, but still, Theon is not his son. He isn’t a Stark, and he never will be.

Jon is, though. Maybe not in name, but he’s a Stark by blood, able to claim Lord Eddard as his father and the Stark children as his siblings. He belongs here in a way Theon never will.

“Enjoy your evening?” Jon calls out when he sees him, contempt clear in his voice. The animosity between them is mutual and has been for years.

Theon rolls his eyes. He does his best to be discreet on these nights when he makes his way back up from the brothel in Wintertown, not wanting Lord and Lady Stark to think he’s dishonouring their daughter with his behaviour. But what is he to do? Sansa may be his betrothed, but she’s barely more than a girl. It will be years before they’re married and why shouldn’t Theon be allowed to have some harmless fun in the meantime?

“I don’t answer to you, Snow,” Theon sneers in response as he makes his way by.

“No, but you do answer to my father,” Jon replies. “I’m sure he’d be interested to hear where you’ve been.”

Theon gives an annoyed huff and turns on his heel to face Jon. “And you’re going to tell him, are you?”

“I should,” Jon says, that northern sternness ever-present in his expression. “My father should know the kind of man he’s letting live under his roof.”

Theon clenches his jaw. “And what kind of man is that?”

“The kind that sneaks off to brothels when there are guests,” Jon replies, standing up, the hilt of his sword still clutched firmly in his hand. Even at his full height, he’s still shorter than Theon, though he’s a better swordsman and they both know it.

Not that it will come to that. Theon and Jon may hate each other, but they’ve never come to blows. For all their differences, they have one important thing in common: Robb. The eldest son and heir of Lord Stark, Robb is as much a brother to Theon as he is to Jon. He’s the only Stark that’s ever truly made Theon feel like a member of the family and for that Theon will follow him to the ends of the earth. 

Jon, he knows, feels much the same.

“They’re not my guests,” Theon snaps. “And besides, what are you doing out here if the guests are so important?”

Jon huffs angrily at this, breaking eye contact with Theon and looking down at the melting snow at his feet, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Theon feels the corners of his lips curl up in a smirk as he realizes the truth.

“Or did Lady Catelyn not think a bastard fit company?” he asks.

If there’s one person in Winterfell that hates Jon as much as Theon, it’s Lady Catelyn. Lord Eddard has a reputation for being honourable to a fault, but his one transgression is Jon. Lord and Lady Stark had already been married and expecting their first child when Jon was fathered. He is the living proof that Lord Stark had been unfaithful to his wife and you can see it on Lady Catelyn’s face every time she looks at him.

Jon scowls at him. “And what kind of company are you, Ironborn?” he shoots back. “For the good Northern folk in that hall? Sneaking off to a whorehouse when you’re betrothed to my sister.”

“Would you prefer it if I turned my attention to Sansa?” Theon replies, still smirking. “She has gotten rather pretty, hasn’t she?”

This isn’t entirely true. Sansa has always been pretty, even when they were children and it didn’t matter for anything. Bright red hair, clear blue eyes, skin like porcelain -- if nothing else, Theon is at least lucky she’s such a beauty.

Jon glares at him, cold as winter. “Don’t touch my sister.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Theon asks. “She’ll be all mine to touch soon enough.”

Jon’s nostrils flare and Theon sees him adjust his grip on his sword, but the beauty of the thing is that he can’t even argue. Theon is right. Sansa is promised to him. So it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t think of her that way at all -- is in no way interested in pursuing Sansa -- because getting a rise like this out of Jon is always worth a lie or two, no matter how vile.

“Not yet,” Jon finally manages. “And until then, stay away from her.”

Theon rolls his eyes, still smirking. “I’ll do my best,” he replies, already beginning to back away towards the door that leads into the Great Hall. “But I may not be able to help who I bump up against. You know how crowded these feasts can get.” Theon glances pointedly around the dark courtyard before looking back at Jon. “Or maybe you don’t.”

Jon looks like he’s about to lunge at Theon, blade first, which Theon takes as his cue to leave. With a laugh, he spins on his heel and saunters off to join the feast.

XxXx

Sansa has always loved music and dancing but there’s little occasion for it in the North. The winter had lasted more than four years and no minstrel had wanted to brave the snows, but there’s a full four-piece band playing in the corner now and Sansa has never been so grateful for spring.

She’s sitting at the high table watching the dancers in the middle of the room. Robb is twirling Alys Karstark about to the beat of the music, her long red hair fanning about her as she spins. It’s almost enough for Sansa to imagine herself down there, dancing along with them all, but for that someone would need to ask her and none of the young lords seem interested.

She’s had a million reasons to curse Theon Greyjoy in her lifetime, but this one is by far the most frustrating. All she wants is to dance and have fun like the young girl she is, but who’s going to ask her? What’s the point in dancing with a girl who’s already spoken for?

It’s late and most of the high lords and their wives have turned in for the night, Sansa’s parents included, leaving their sons and daughters to carry on the festivities without them. Arya had disappeared some hours ago, not one for parties, and Rickon, still too young for such revelries, had been sent off to bed shortly after the feast ended. Sansa’s other two brothers are both still present, though, Robb on the dancefloor and Bran at one of the tables, laughing with the son of one of their father’s bannerman -- Reed, she thinks.

Sansa sits alone, watching the merriment and swirling her wine around her cup. She’s doing her best to drink slowly, but it’s easier said than done when there’s nothing else to do. She’s on her fourth or fifth cup already, but who’s counting?

A door at the side of the hall opens, catching Sansa’s attention, and she turns in time to see Theon slip into the room. He pauses inside the doorway, glancing about the party, probably in search of Robb. Their eyes meet briefly -- awkwardly -- before he looks away, spotting her brother and making his way towards him.

He’s been down to Wintertown again, she knows. It’s no secret, at least not among the Stark children, that Theon has a habit of sneaking off to the brothel in the nearby village. She wonders vaguely if she should be offended by his behaviour, and perhaps she is a little bit, but mostly she finds she can’t really bring herself to care. Besides, if he fathers a bastard with some lowborn whore, surely her parents won’t still make her marry him. Will they?

She doesn’t take her eyes off him as he moves across the room, coming up behind Robb and putting a hand on his shoulder before leaning into his ear to be heard over the din. She has no idea what he says, but it makes Robb laugh and give Theon a playful shove away. Theon laughs, too, and begins making his way towards one of the tables. Robb follows, Alys Karstark on his heels. They take a seat at one of the tables, already occupied with a handful of other young lords -- Alys’ brother, Torrhen, the Smalljon Umber, and one of the Manderlys -- and Theon reaches for the wine.

As they all fall into easy conversation with each other, Sansa turns away with an annoyed huff. She’s the eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Stark and -- though it may not be polite to say so -- the prettiest girl in the room. She should be in her element right now, drifting between dances from one handsome partner to the next. Instead, she’s alone and tipsy and watching everyone else enjoy themselves without her.

She’s just beginning to consider getting up and going to bed when the sound of a throat being cleared catches her attention and she turns to find Jon Umber standing before her. He’s a handsome young man, a few years older than her, with thick dark hair and deep brown eyes. He looks every bit a Northerner, which is appropriate as he’s heir to the Last Hearth, the kingdom’s northernmost stronghold. He was named for his father, whom people have referred to as the Greatjon for as long as anyone can remember, earning him the nickname Smalljon.

She smiles warmly at him, every bit the proper hostess. “Can I help you, my Lord?”

“Very much, my Lady,” he replies, smiling just as warmly. “It has come to my attention that we have not yet been graced with your lovely presence on the dancefloor.”

Sansa feels the colour rise in her cheeks. “And is there some way you were hoping to correct this?”

“Indeed there is,” he tells her, offering his hand. “Would you do me the honour, Lady Sansa?”

She takes his hand, her smile widening, and lets him lead her to the middle of the room. As he pulls her into the centre of the crowd of dancers, however, the music changes, the beat slowing, and he pulls her against his chest, swaying them gently.

“It truly is a crime for a woman of your beauty to be watching from the sidelines all night,” he whispers in her ear.

“Well, the crime wasn’t mine,” she replies. “You’re the first man in the room to ask me to stand up with him.”

“All these men are fools, then,” he says, an edge of passion in his voice that makes her heart flutter. 

It’s all just a game, of course, but where’s the harm in pretending? She longs to be wooed by the handsome son of a noble house, so why shouldn’t she enjoy this moment while it lasts?

Hands at her waist, the Smalljon spins her expertly around the room, making her feel as delicate as a butterfly floating on the breeze. On one pass she happens to catch a glance at the table where her brother and his friends are still sitting. Most of them aren’t paying any attention to the dancers, but Theon’s eyes are on her, his expression unreadable. When they catch each other’s gaze he quickly looks away, downing the rest of his cup as he does.

She doesn’t have much time to dwell on Theon’s strange looks, though, as the song comes to an end and her partner draws her in close again.

“You must truly be the most graceful creature I’ve ever beheld,” he tells her and if she wasn’t already so flushed from the wine and the excitement, she’s sure she would be turning red again.

“You’re too kind, ser,” she replies, feeling a little dizzy. Perhaps she did drink too much wine. 

The Smalljon watches as she sways slightly on her feet, keeping a hand on her upper arm for support. “Are you quite well, my Lady?”

“Oh, fine,” she assures him. “Though it is getting rather late, and perhaps I’ve had enough excitement for one evening.”

“As you say,” he nods and leads her off the dancefloor.

She doesn’t expect him to follow her any further than the door at the edge of the hall before bidding her a goodnight and heading back to join the party, but he surprises her by accompanying her out into the corridor. 

“There’s no need to trouble yourself, my Lord,” she says, not wanting to be a burden. “I can find my own way from here.”

“Nonsense,” he replies, taking her arm in his. “What kind of a lord would I be if I didn’t make sure you arrive safely at your bedchamber?”

“You’re too kind,” she says again, ducking her head as she feels herself begin to blush once more.

They head up the stone steps at the end of the corridor towards the area of the castle that’s been the private residence of the Stark family for generations. Sansa is vaguely aware that it may not be appropriate to allow one of their guests to follow her here, but surely it won’t matter if she bends those rules a bit. The Smalljon doesn’t seem to mind, so why should she?

When they reach the end of the hallway that leads to her bedchamber she stops and turns to him. “I think it’s best if we part ways here, my Lord,” she tells him.

He smiles, lifting her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles. “As you say, my Lady,” he replies. “Though I wonder if you would do me one last honour?”

She watches him curiously, her hand still held firmly in his. “I don’t know what more I have to offer you this evening.”

He smiles at her again, but something feels off about it this time. The warm, gentlemanly look in his eye has been replaced with something almost sinister. “I think you do,” he says, voice low and husky.

Sansa swallows, moving to take a step away from him but he just follows her, still not releasing her hand. Soon she finds herself with her back pressed to the stone wall, Jon Umber looming over her like a shadow.

She thinks about screaming, but holds her tongue, knowing what kind of rumours will be started by someone finding her here, so close to her bedchamber, with a young man.

“I apologize if I’ve given you the wrong idea, my Lord,” she says, voice shaking ever-so-slightly. “It was not my intention--”

“I think we both know what your intention was,” he whispers, pushing in close to her, his arms braced against the wall on either side of her head, preventing her escape. He leans in and Sansa turns her head, smelling the wine on his breath.

“Please stop,” she begs, grasping at the last straw she has. “I’m already promised--”

“What the Greyjoy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” he cuts her off again. “And don’t pretend you’d rather have that Ironborn pirate over a true man of the North.”

One of his hands grips her roughly by the chin, turning her head to force her to look at him again. His lips are inches from hers and she squeezes her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, when suddenly the weight of his body is pulled away from her and he’s flung across the corridor. His back hits the far wall and he slides to the ground with a groan, leaving Sansa trembling where she stands, Theon Greyjoy between them.

“The lady told you to stop,” Theon growls down at the Smalljon who glares back up at him.

“The lady seemed happy enough to lead me up to her bedchamber,” he sneers in response, pushing himself to his feet.

“I didn’t!” Sansa insists, frantically shaking her head. “I didn’t mean--”

“Tease,” he spits at her.

Theon takes a step forward, gripping him roughly by the front of his tunic and shoving him towards the end of the corridor. “Leave now,” he orders, an anger in his voice like nothing Sansa has ever heard before. “Lest I wake her Lord father and we see what he has to say about this.”

The Smalljon clenches his jaw, glares back and forth between them again, and leaves without another word. They listen to his retreating footsteps before Theon finally turns to look at Sansa.

“Are you alright?” he asks, more gentle than he’d been a moment ago but anger still clearly simmering beneath the surface.

Sansa nods, not quite able to meet his eye. “Yes,” she replies. “Thank you.”

He sighs. “Sansa,” he says, voice soft, and she looks up at him. The anger is fading now, replaced with a concern she’s never seen on his face before. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She nods again. “Yes,” she repeats. “He didn’t get the chance…”

“Good,” Theon replies when she trails off. “You should get some sleep, then.”

She turns toward her bedchamber before looking back at Theon. “You won’t…” she pauses. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” he promises. She sees him hesitate, and then ask, “What were you doing up here with him?”

“Nothing!” she insists. “Honestly. I didn’t even really mean for him to follow me, he just did.”

“Alright,” he nods. “I’ll see to it he leaves you alone.”

She watches him curiously for a moment. “What were you doing up here?”

It’s not that he isn’t allowed in this part of the castle -- Theon’s bedchamber is just around the corner from her own -- she just hadn’t expected him to leave the party so soon.

Theon doesn’t quite meet her eye as he answers, “I saw you leave with him. Just had a bad feeling about it.”

Somehow, that almost makes it worse. Theon had been able to tell from across the room what Jon Umber’s intentions were and yet Sansa, looking him right in the eye, had been too naive to see it. What a stupid little girl she is sometimes.

“Well,” she swallows. “Thank you again.”

“Right,” Theon replies. “Good night, then.”

With that he turns and strides away from her, down the hall and around the corner. She doesn’t wait for the sound of his footsteps to fade before moving to her door, pushing it open, and barring it behind her.

XxXx

Theon thinks about returning to the feast. He thinks about just going to bed. His blood is still up, though, and he knows he’ll find neither enjoyment nor rest while he’s still seething the way he is.

Who does Umber think he is? Trying to force himself on Sansa the way he had, here in her home where he’s been welcomed as a guest? How dare he make such advances towards her when she didn’t ask for them? 

Sansa is a lady of House Stark, Robb’s sister and Lord Eddard’s daughter, and, Theon can’t help but think bitterly, _his_ betrothed. How dare the Smalljon disrespect her so?

Theon knows exactly where his feet are taking him but makes no attempt to change his direction as he stalks towards the guest wing of the castle. The Umbers have been given rooms on the third floor, he knows, and he marches his way up the stairs without hesitation. He doesn’t know which room the Smalljon is in, but there’s only one door with light still pouring out from beneath it so that’s the one he heads for, banging his fist against the wood.

He hears the sound of shuffling and then a moment later the door swings open, revealing Jon Umber in nothing but his trousers.

He smirks when he sees Theon. “I was hoping you were someone else.”

Theon glares at the gaul of him, thinking he could ever open his door -- and shirtless, no less -- and expect to see Sansa Stark on the other side. “I think you should leave,” Theon tells him.

“Leave?” Umber replies, feigning offence. “But the festival’s only just begun and I’m a guest of Lord Stark.”

“You won’t be for long,” Theon shoots back. “Not once I tell him what you did.”

Umber seems to falter at this, but only just, his smirk staying firmly in place. “Tell him what? That she invited me up to her chamber?”

“She didn’t,” Theon says through clenched teeth. “And Lord Stark would never believe that she did. You followed her upstairs and tried to force yourself on her, the daughter of your liege lord--” Umber’s smirk is beginning to fade now “--if you want to keep your head, you’ll be gone by morning.”

Umber narrows his eyes. “You expect me to ride for the Last Hearth now, in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t care where you go,” Theon answers. “Get a room in town for the night if you like. But come morning, if you’re still in Winterfell, I will tell Lord Stark what you did.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but Umber keeps his mouth shut, pressing his lips into a thin line and huffing angrily.

Theon nods, knowing he’s won. “I’ll have the groom saddle your horse.”

With that he turns away from the Smalljon, who slams the door at him in response, and makes his way back downstairs, feeling better already.


	3. Chapter 2

Sansa doesn’t sleep very well that night. She can’t shake that helpless, trapped feeling she’d felt when Jon Umber had his arms to either side, boxing her in. She can’t forget the warm, moist feeling of his breath against her cheek or the sour stink of wine it had carried. She keeps reaching up to scratch the side of her face like she can rid herself of the memory by literally clawing it from her skin.

She shakes herself and takes a deep breath, trying to focus on something else. She can still hear the faint sounds of the band playing in the Great Hall, even from here. She wonders if Theon went back down to rejoin the party, if he’s sitting with Robb right now, drinking and laughing. 

She doesn’t think Theon will tell him what happened, and not just because he promised Sansa he wouldn’t. For all his faults, she knows Theon loves her brother and wouldn’t want to see him become a murderer.

 _For all his faults_. Sansa rolls her eyes at herself. He isn’t as bad as all that, not really. He may have been a nuisance to her growing up, but the truth of it is that he never treated her any worse than her own brothers did, and they didn’t treat her that bad at all, really. No, Sansa has always had other reasons for being unforgiving towards Theon, but can anyone blame her, really, for being biased against him? For wanting to keep him at arm’s length?

She’s going to be his wife one day and that’s always been a dreary and slightly terrifying prospect, but now, for the first time, she thinks perhaps it may not be the worst thing. She could have found herself betrothed to a man like Smalljon Umber. If she has to choose between the man pinning her to the wall and the man pulling him off, she’ll take the latter every time.

Of course, she doesn’t have any choice at all, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? It’s not about Theon, not really. It never has been. It’s about the love story she’ll never get to have. She’ll never be wooed or swept off her feet. She’ll never get to fall in love. 

She’ll just have a lifetime with Theon, and though that may not be as bad as it’s always sounded, it’s still not what she wants. It’s not romance.

But now she’s just being a silly, little girl again. She’d played at romance tonight and look where it had gotten her. Maybe she’s better off just embracing the path that’s been laid out before her. And Theon isn’t so bad, after all. He’s handsome, cocky but good-humoured, and tonight he’d been downright gallant, saving her from the Smalljon the way he had.

Yes, her situation could be much worse. In that, at least, she can take some solace. It’s with this thought in mind that she finally manages to drift off to sleep. 

Dawn comes much too soon, the grey light of morning shining in through her window and casting itself over her eyelids. With a groan, Sansa rolls over and buries her face in the covers. There are birds singing in the Godswood, a sound she’s scarcely heard all winter, and she sighs to herself. There will be no getting back to sleep now. Besides which, the castle is still full of guests and she knows her parents will be expecting her to be a good hostess.

She rises from her bed, donning her dressing gown, and makes her way to the vanity. A maid comes in as she’s brushing her hair with a bucket of warm water that she pours into the washbasin by the window.

“Good morning, m’Lday,” she says with a brief curtsy. 

Sansa gives her a tired smile. “Good morning, Bree,” she replies. “Have any of our guests come down to breakfast yet?”

“Not yet, m’Lady,” Bree tells her. “But I saw your Lord father making his way to the Godswood.”

“Thank you, Bree,” Sansa says, smiling again, relieved that she might be able to at least have breakfast in peace. “That will be all.”

“Very good, m’Lady,” Bree replies before leaving the room.

Sansa puts her hair in a long braid down the middle of her back before quickly washing and dressing. When she’s done, she opens her chamber door quietly and peers out into the hallway. She’s not entirely sure what she’s expecting to see but it must be something because when she finds the corridor empty she lets out a sigh of relief.

She makes her way down to the Great Hall, turning her head away as she goes by the spot where Jon Umber had pinned her to the wall the night before, to find it mostly empty except for the lone figure sitting at one of the tables spooning runny eggs into his mouth. He hasn’t seen her yet and for a moment she considers turning around and leaving, but shakes herself out of it and strides across the hall to take the seat across from Theon.

He looks up at her in surprise, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. “Sansa,” he greets.

She sighs, awkward, and says, “I wanted to thank you again for last night.”

Theon puts his spoon down and sits up, looking her full in the face. “You don’t have to thank me for that.” 

“I do,” she insists. “If you hadn’t followed us…”

Theon shakes his head when she trails off. “Well, listen, you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Her eyebrows knit in, confused. “What do you mean?”

“He’s gone,” Theon tells her. “We had words and he left.”

“You had words?” she asks, dubious. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Theon explains. “That I told him if he was still here by morning your father would have his head.”

Sansa looks at him in horror. “You promised you wouldn’t tell my father!”

“And I won’t,” Theon assures her. “But Umber doesn’t know that.”

She watches him closely for a moment, but he seems earnest enough so she lets out a small huff of a laugh and shakes her head. “Alright.”

Theon seems to hesitate for a moment before going on, “You should, though. Tell your father, I mean.”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head again. “It would just cause strife with his bannerman. It’s not worth it.”

Theon gives her an odd look at that and says, “He’s heir to the Last Hearth. He’ll _be_ your father’s bannerman one day. And Robb’s. They should both know the sort of man he is.”

“You want me to tell Robb too?” she laughs, incredulous. “He’ll kill him.”

“Only if he can get his hands on him,” Theon replies with a shrug. “And I’ve seen to it that he can’t. Umber’s gone. Robb’d have to chase him down and he won’t do that. Your father won’t let him.”

Before Sansa has a chance to reply a serving girl appears, refilling Theon’s goblet. “Can I get you anything, m’Lady?” she asks.

“Just some toast is fine, thank you Marilla,” Sansa tells her.

“Aye, m’Lady,” she nods and scurries off. 

“If I tell Robb and my father,” Sansa begins once she’s out of earshot, turning back to Theon. “It will be after the festival. There’s no need to ruin the party, especially if he’s really gone.”

“He’s gone,” Theon promises. “And fair enough. We enjoy the rest of the festival but when things get back to business, you tell your father the truth.”

Sansa nods, knowing Theon is probably right. “Fine.”

“Good,” Theon replies and goes back to his eggs.

They’re quiet for a moment, the only sound the scrape of Theon’s spoon against his plate, and she watches him carefully as she waits for her own breakfast. She’s never spent much time looking at him before, she realizes. Quite the opposite, she’s spent most of her life trying to avoid his gaze. He is rather handsome, though, she has to admit. And not just in the clean, well-kempt way most high born boys are. His hair is thick and curly, and his eyes change between blue and green depending on the light.

 _Like the sea,_ she thinks. _He truly is Ironborn._

Probably feeling her eyes on him, Theon looks up at her quizzically. “Do I have something on my face?” he asks.

“Do you think--” Sansa pauses, hesitating. “Do you think we should, I don’t know, spend some time together?”

Theon sighs, dropping his spoon and sitting up again. “And here I thought we were going to make it through an entire conversation without this coming up.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but presses on. “We’ve been living under the same roof for over a decade and I feel as though we hardly know one another.”

“What’s there to know?” he asks. “You like flowers and needlepoint. I like archery and wine.”

“And that’s all there is to either of us, is it?” she sasses. “Like it or not, Theon, we’re going to be married one day. Don’t you think we should at least try to be friends first?”

Theon looks as though he’s about to answer when the door at the side of the hall opens and Marilla comes in with Sansa’s toast. Instead he snaps his jaw shut and picks his spoon back up, stirring his eggs around his plate. He doesn’t eat any, Sansa notes.

“M’Lady,” Marilla says as she places the plate down before Sansa.

“Thank you, Marilla,” Sansa replies, looking up at her with a smile. 

“Was there anything else I could get you, m’Lady? M’Lord?” she looks back and forth between Sansa and Theon.

The latter doesn’t react at all, still staring at his plate, but the former smiles up at her again. “No, thank you, Marilla.”

Marilla, seeming to realize that perhaps she’s walked into the middle of something, smiles back, a little awkwardly, and replies, “Yes, m’Lady.” before quickly making her exit.

“So what do you propose?” Theon asks once they’re alone again.

“I don’t know,” Sansa shrugs, pulling the crust off one of her pieces of toast. There’s a jar of marmalade sitting by Theon’s plate and she reaches for it. “That we speak to each other from time-to-time perhaps.”

Theon laughs. “Speaking to each other ‘from time-to-time’ is all we’ve ever done.”

“Well, fine,” Sansa replies, spreading marmalade across her toast. “We speak to each other every day. We make a point of it. At least one conversation every day.”

Theon eyes her for a moment then nods. “Alright. Does this count as our one for today?”

Sansa licks the marmalade off her fingers and purses her lips as she looks him up and down. “I think so,” she decides, pushing herself away from the table and making her way out of the hall, toast in hand. The sound of Theon’s chuckle follows her.

XxXx

Theon finds himself in the training yard that afternoon, firing arrows at a target and getting increasingly frustrated. His aim is off and he’s not sure why but he thinks it has something to do with Sansa. They haven’t seen each other since this morning, but he finds he can’t get their conversation out of his head.

Something had irked him about the things she’d said. Umber had attacked her and she doesn’t think it’s worth telling her father? He doesn’t think he’s ever heard something so stupid. A daughter of House Stark is attacked in the halls of Winterfell and it’s not worth it to tell Lord Eddard? Theon lets another arrow fly, hitting too far left of centre, and wonders just how much Sansa thinks her honour _is_ worth.

But it’s more than that. She’d said they should try to be friends, meaning they aren’t friends already. He’s never really considered whether or not he and Sansa are friends, but for some reason knowing she doesn’t think so bothers him.

He thinks of Robb and the other Stark children like his siblings, but not Sansa. He’s always made a point of not seeing Sansa that way, knowing their fate. But still, they grew up together. Surely, that counts for something. He supposes he’s always taken it for granted that they’re at least friends.

He nocks another arrow, draws, breathes, looses. It hits the brick wall behind the target.

He hears a laugh over his shoulder and turns to see Robb approaching, Torrhen Karstark to one side, Jon Snow to the other.

“You’re usually a better shot than that, Theon,” Robb calls. “Into the wine already?” 

Theon pastes on a smile and gives him a shrug, deciding to play along. “I thought this was supposed to be a party.”

Robb and Karstark both laugh, but Jon remains silent, stopping a few feet back from the other two to lean against the railing of the training yard. “Been looking for you all afternoon,” Robb tells him. “Thought maybe you’d disappeared, too.”

“‘Too’?” Theon asks, turning away so Robb can’t see his face and walking towards the target to retrieve his arrows. “Who else has disappeared?”

“The Smalljon departed in the wee hours of the morning,” Robb replies. “No one has any idea why.”

Theon yanks an arrow free from the target. “Some people are just no fun, I suppose.”

“He was plenty of fun last night,” Torrhen says.

 _Not for everyone_ , Theon doesn’t say. “Suppose he had his fill, then.”

“I hope we haven’t done anything to offend him,” Robb replies, ever the good little lordling.

Theon grits his teeth for a moment at the thought of Robb worrying about offending Umber after what he did, the urge to tell him the truth momentarily overwhelming. But he made a promise to Sansa so instead he takes a deep breath and turns back to Robb with a grin. “Unless he’s offended by the best food and drink he’s had since winter began,” he jokes. “I don’t think the fault is with House Stark.”

Robb laughs. “Just more for the rest of us to enjoy, then, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Theon replies, giving Robb a nod. “Let him leave the festivities to those who know how to enjoy them.”

“And that’s you, is it?” Jon calls out to him, arms crossed and ornery as ever.

Theon rolls his eyes but before he can say anything Robb turns to him with an exasperated grin. “Don’t you start,” he says to Jon. “I’ll not have you two fighting, not when we’ve got guests.”

Jon gives him a smile, seemingly in spite of himself, and replies, “You expect us to go a whole fortnight without fighting?”

Theon can’t help but snort. “Doesn’t exactly sound like us, does it?”

Robb looks back and forth between them, his smile widening and a glint of mischief Theon knows all too well in his eye. “Yes, I do expect it,” Robb replies. “In fact, I _challenge_ it. I challenge the two of you to make it to the end of the Dawn Festival without ending up at each other’s throats.”

Theon and Jon exchange a weary glance which quickly turns to a glare as they remember they’re supposed to hate each other. “I accept if he does,” Theon replies.

Jon rolls his eyes. “If you think you can manage it, Greyjoy.”

Robb and Karstark both laugh. “I hope you realize you’re both losing already,” Robb tells them.

“Not off to a very good start, lads,” Torrhen agrees.

“You’re right,” Jon replies, pushing himself off the railing and standing up straight. “There’s only one way we’re going to pull this off. I’ll see you in a fortnight, Greyjoy.”

With that he turns and walks off, leaving the other three laughing after him. Theon slides his arrows back into the quiver at his hip before depositing both quiver and bow back with the other equipment.

“We should head in,” Robb says, turning back towards the entrance to the castle. “It’ll be dinner soon.”

The three young lords head inside, Theon parting ways with the other two and heading up to his room, telling one of the serving girls he passes on the way to bring him up some warm water. He’s been outside for hours, in the mud and his own sweat, and he wants to wash up before eating.

Once in his room he changes his trousers and boots, stripping off his jerkin and undershirt. A moment later there’s a soft tap at his door and he calls for them to come in.

“‘Scuse me, m’Lord,” the serving girl says as she enters with a bow. Bree, he thinks her name is. “Marilla said you asked for some water.”

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, nodding towards the washbasin. 

She makes her way over, pouring out the water, and turns back to Theon. He’s still bare-chested and he doesn’t miss the way her eyes quickly sweep over him. 

“Will there be anything else, m’Lord?” she asks, eyes large. 

She wouldn’t be the first serving girl he’s bedded. And she’s a pretty young lass, too, no doubt. She has the look of the North, all dark hair and eyes. Though he’s always preferred a Northern girl with red hair, Theon thinks, his mind going to Roz.

Of course, she’s not the only Northern girl with red hair he knows.

Theon shakes himself and, maybe a bit too gruffly, replies, “No. That’ll be all.”

Bree gives a short curtsy. “Yes, m’Lord,” she murmurs, and quickly leaves the room.

Once the door is firmly shut behind her, Theon makes his way over to the washbasin and begins scrubbing the grime from beneath his fingernails, not giving his mind anymore opportunity to conjure up strange thoughts.

XxXx

“I need you to hide me,” Arya says, dropping into the seat next to Sansa and leaning over the table, her loose hair falling over her face. 

“From what?” Sansa asks, picking up her goblet and swirling her wine. The evening is in full swing once more, the minstrels playing their songs, the lords and ladies laughing and dancing and drinking.

“Gawen Glover,” she groans. “He’s been trying to get me to dance with him all night.”

“You could do worse,” Sansa tells her, taking a sip. “He’s heir to Deepwood Motte.”

Arya gives her an incredulous look. “I don’t care if he’s heir to the Iron Throne.”

Sansa laughs. “I would think that would just make it worse.” 

Arya gives a snort and reaches for a goblet and the decanter of wine across the table. “Are you jealous?” she teases, filling her cup. “I haven’t seen you dancing at all.”

Sansa thinks of the night before when Jon Umber had spun her around the dancefloor and shivers. “I’m fine where I am,” she replies, taking another sip, this one larger than the last. 

Arya gives her an odd look. “That’s not like you,” she says. “You live for this sort of thing. Never used to be able to get you to shut up about knights and dancing.”

“Well,” Sansa glances pointedly about the hall. “I don’t see any knights, do you?”

“No,” Arya allows, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “But plenty of dancing.”

“And no one to dance with,” Sansa replies, trying to sound as bored as she can.

She can tell by the look in her eyes that Arya doesn’t buy what she’s saying and instead glances across the hall. “Or maybe there is,” she says. “And he just hasn’t asked.”

Confused, Sansa follows her sister’s gaze to a table on the far side of the hall. Robb is sitting there with Jon and the Karstark siblings… and Theon. One of the Cerwyn girls is sitting next to him, smiling and batting her eyelashes in a way that gives Sansa a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She looks back to find Arya watching her with those suspicious eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I saw you with him this morning,” her sister tells her bluntly. “Came down for breakfast but when I saw the two of you huddled together I figured I should give you some privacy. You were so wrapped up in each other you didn’t even notice me.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “That’s because you sneak everywhere you go like a thief in the night. If you’d stayed you’d have seen that we barely spoke to each other for five minutes and about nothing important.”

This, of course, is not entirely true but she doesn’t like the way Arya is eyeing her, like she knows something Sansa doesn’t.

Finally, Arya sighs. “Whatever you say, I suppose.”

“What are you still doing down here, anyway?” Sansa asks. “I would’ve expected you to have snuck off by now.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “Mother says I’m not to do that again. That it was rude since we’ve got guests.”

“Like it or not,” Sansa shrugs. “You’re a Lady of House Stark. That comes with some responsibilities.”

“As you know all too well,” Arya replies, a sly smile on her face, her eyes darting towards the table at the other end of the hall again. 

Against her will, Sansa’s eyes do the same, but Theon is gone. Instead, she finds him walking towards the front of the hall where she and Arya are sitting. Arya turns her sly smile back on Sansa, who quickly downs the rest of the wine in her goblet, if only so she has something to do other than meet her sister’s eye.

“I need your help,” Theon says when he reaches them, climbing the dais and stopping on the other side of the table.

Sansa furrows her brows at him. “With what?”

“The Cerwyn girl,” he replies, voice low. “She won’t leave me alone.”

Arya laughs. “You should point her towards Gawen Glover. Solve both our problems.”

Sansa leans back in her seat and tilts her chin up, observing Theon with cool eyes. “Well, she’s certainly very pretty,” she tells him. “Are you certain you want her to leave you alone?”

She’s not entirely sure what’s come over her, but she knows Theon’s reputation. She’s heard the way the serving girls gossip about him. A pretty little highborn girl practically throwing herself at him should be exactly his idea of a good time.

He cocks his head at her, eyes momentarily darting over to Arya, before replying, “She doesn’t have an original thought in her head.”

“I should think that was exactly your type,” Sansa shoots back.

She sees an amused smile pull at the corner of Theon’s lips and hears Arya mutter, “Seven hells.” Her sister reaches for the decanter again and tops up her goblet before rising from the table and walking off. Neither Sansa nor Theon pay her any mind, eyes still on each other.

“How exactly were you hoping I would help you?” Sansa asks, feeling slightly more relaxed now that Arya is gone, though she has no idea why.

“Well, I had to make my excuses to get away from her,” Theon explains, swinging himself around the end of the table and dropping into the seat Arya just vacated. “And the best excuse I have is our betrothal.”

Sansa makes a face. “So, you’ve come over here to pretend we’re madly in love, have you?”

A look of mock-hurt appears on Theon’s face and his hand comes up to rest over his heart. “Are you saying we aren’t?”

Sansa can’t help but laugh at that and Theon grins. He leans across the table, reaching for the decanter of wine and an empty goblet. After filling his own drink he fills Sansa’s as well, holding his cup out to her when he’s done. She lifts her goblet and clinks it against his.

“To us,” he jokes. “And our undying love.”

Sansa laughs again and they both drink. She glances back towards the table he’d been sitting at to find the Cerwyn girl watching them with a look of frustration. When Sansa catches her eye she quickly looks away, rising from the table and striding determinedly out of the hall.

“Seems to have worked,” she says, turning back to Theon. 

He looks towards the back of the hall as well and nods. “Well, that was easier than I thought it would be.” He doesn’t move to get up, though, just takes another mouthful of wine.

“I think you’re free to go back to enjoying the party now,” she tells him. 

He turns to her with furrowed brows. “Who says I’m not enjoying the party?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. As if you wouldn’t rather be over there with Robb and Jon and the rest.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he scoffs and when she gives him a confused look goes on. “Robb has challenged Jon and I not get at each throats for the rest of the festival. It’s not an easy feat.”

Sansa shakes her head, bemused. “And what do you get if you win?”

“Oh, nothing,” Theon shrugs. “Besides the satisfaction of proving Robb wrong.”

“He is right an annoying amount of the time, isn’t he?” she replies with a chuckle.

Theon takes another swig of his wine before asking, “And what about you?”

“What about me?” she asks, looking up at him in confusion.

“Are you enjoying the party?” he elaborates. “Last night notwithstanding.”

She’s about to tell him that no, she’s not enjoying herself particularly, when it occurs to her that she’s laughed more in the last ten minutes since he sat down than she has since the festival started. Instead she finds herself shrugging and not quite meeting his eye as she replies, “It has its moments.”

She can feel Theon’s eyes on her but she doesn’t turn to him, instead scanning the room as nonchalantly as she can and taking another sip of her wine. She hears him take a breath and braces herself for whatever he’s about to say when, from across the hall, someone calls his name.

They both look up to see Robb waving an arm in their direction. “Theon!” he shouts, a tipsy-looking smile plastered across his face. “Come over here and tell Torrhen about that big stag we took down! He doesn’t believe me!”

Theon gives his head a shake, but he’s grinning. He stands up, goblet in hand, but before he walks away he looks back down at Sansa. “You should come join us,” he says. “It’s got to be more fun than sitting up here by yourself.”

Sansa glances around the hall at all the revelers and then back up to Theon. “I suppose you’re right,” she replies, standing as well. “Lead on.”

Theon’s grin only widens. “Right this way, My Lady.”


	4. Chapter 3

Theon wakes the next morning with a headache. He’s tempted to roll over, bury his head under his pillow, and go back to sleep, but judging by the angle at which the sun is slanting in through his chamber window he’s already slept late enough.

He sits up with a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. It’s hardly the worst hangover he’s ever had, nothing some water and a bit of toast won’t cure, but first he has to make himself presentable. There’s already fresh water in the washbasin, though it’s not very warm any longer. He washes and dresses as quickly as his sluggish limbs will allow and heads down to the Great Hall.

A number of Winterfell’s guests are already there, chatting and eating. Theon makes his way towards the table at the top of the hall where Robb is sitting with his little brother, Rickon. Theon musses the boy’s hair as he goes by -- earning him a glare -- and drops into the seat at Robb’s other side.

“Was wondering when we’d be seeing you,” Robb greets him.

Theon groans in response and gestures towards the jug sitting in front of Rickon. “Water.”

Robb laughs, passing the jug over. Theon grabs an empty cup and fills it, downing it all in one go before filling it again. “Suppose I don’t need to ask if you had a good night,” Robb jokes.

“If you don’t need an entire trough of water in the morning, you didn’t drink enough wine the night before,” Theon replies, and points a finger at Rickon. “Don’t forget that.”

The boy laughs. “I’m still only allowed one cup at feasts.”

“Aye, for now,” Theon tells him, giving Robb a quick wink. “But you’ll be a man some day and you’ll need to represent your house honourably in all things. Including drinking lesser men under the table.”

Rickon rolls his eyes and puffs out his chest. “I’ll represent my house honourably on the battlefield,” he insists.

“That’s all good and well,” Theon replies, waving a dismissive hand. “When there are battles to be fought. But representing your father’s house in peacetime? That takes a different set of skills entirely.”

Robb shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Don’t you go being a bad influence on him,” he chastises.

A serving girl comes over with a plate of toast and bacon for the table and Theon flashes her a quick grin, leaning over to snatch up a strip. Her ears turn crimson and she ducks her head as she scurries away. He turns back in time to see Robb roll his eyes but he doesn’t say anything.

“What’s the plan for the day?” Theon asks, popping the bacon into his mouth and tearing it in half with his teeth.

“No plan, really,” Robb replies. “Though I was thinking about maybe gathering the boys for a bit of a sparring session.”

“Can I come?” Rickon immediately asks, perking up in Robb’s direction.

Robb turns to him with a grin. “You’re one of the boys, aren’t you?” Rickon shoots back an almost identical grin to his older brother’s and Robb turns to Theon. “What do you say?”

Theon is usually up for a bit of swordplay -- though he prefers target practice -- but right now he doesn’t see much appeal. Perhaps it’s just because the best thing about a sparring session has always been getting to take out some anger on Jon, who at the moment, he’s not supposed to be fighting with. Somehow, that takes all the fun out of it.

“Maybe I’ll join you later,” he shrugs.

“Alright, have it your way,” Robb replies, clapping him on the shoulder and turning to Rickon. “Go, run and find Bran. I’ll get the lads and Ser Rodrik.”

Rickon jumps up and shoots off to do as his brother told him. Robb chuckles, finishing off the water in his goblet, and turns back to Theon. “You sure you don’t want to join us?”

“I’m sure,” Theon answers, spreading blackberry jam over a piece of toast.

Robb shakes his head and stands up. “What are you going to do instead?”

Theon takes a bite of his toast, leaning back in his seat to look up at Robb. “Don’t know yet,” he replies, remembering he owes Sansa a conversation at some point. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Well,” Robb sighs. “You know where we’ll be if you change your mind.”

Theon waves him off, taking another bite and scanning the hall. There’s no one interesting about -- all old ladies and little children -- so Theon leans forward, putting a handful of bacon between two slices of toast, and pushes himself away from the table. He heads for the door at the end of the hall, stepping out into the corridor. He pauses for a moment, glancing left and right, deciding where to head first. 

Without much thought he heads out to the courtyard and around the castle to the entrance to the Godswood. Theon hasn’t spent much time here, not since they were all children running through the trees. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. The Old Gods are not his gods and a son of the Iron Islands doesn’t belong in a Godswood, no matter how much he might like to.

But he knows Sansa likes to pray in the mornings, so he walks through the stone archway and towards the towering, crimson-leaved Heart Tree at the centre. There’s a small pool next to the ancient weirwood and he finds her sitting on a rock, gazing into the water. The crunch of leaves under his boot causes her to whip around, startled. She quickly relaxes, though, when she sees it’s just him.

“Don’t mean to interrupt,” he says, stopping a few feet off, holding his hands behind his back awkwardly. He knows it’s stupid but he swears he can _feel_ the gaze of the Heart Tree on him, it’s weeping eyes boring holes into the side of his head.

Sansa stands, flattens her skirts. “You don’t? That’s unlike you.”

Theon huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “I’m trying to be more polite,” he replies, waves a hand vaguely back towards the castle. “Guests and all.”

“Noble of you,” Sansa teases, walking around the rock she’d been seated on and stopping a few feet in front of him, hands clasped neatly before her. “What are you doing here?”

“You were the one who insisted we speak every day,” he explains. “Or are you bored of me already?”

“I should hope not,” she replies, mock-serious and stepping closer to him. “That should make for a rather bleak future. Do try to be interesting for at least another day or two.”

Theon chuckles, taking a step forward as well. “If you insist.”

They’re only about a foot apart now and Theon can see the colour in her cheeks. It may be spring, but there’s still a chill, especially in the mornings. 

They’re silent for a moment, awkward, before Sansa says, “Well, what shall we talk about?”

“This was your idea,” Theon retorts.

Sansa sighs. “Fine,” she begins, turning and beginning to stroll away. Theon takes two quick steps, catching up to her side. “Tell me something about you I don’t already know.”

“I don’t know what you don’t already know about me,” he replies, watching Sansa from the side of his eye.

She _tuts_ at him in annoyance. “Alright then. Tell me about…” she pauses, thinking and for a moment, something almost wistful comes over her face. “Tell me about the sea.”

Theon looks at her in surprise, not expecting that. “The sea?”

That wistful look is gone as quickly as it had come and Theon feels a flash of something almost like regret. Sansa ducks her head and sheepishly murmurs, “I’ve just never seen it before.”

He knows this, of course. Robb is the only one of the Stark siblings that’s ever really been away from Winterfell and that was only to accompany his father on visits to the other Northern lords. None of them have ever seen the sea before.

Theon thinks for a moment before saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Well, it’s big.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I know that much.”

“You know it,” Theon replies. “But you don’t understand it, not really.”

“How do you mean?” she asks, brow furrowing at him.

“You can’t imagine how big it is,” he tells her. “Standing on the cliffs of Pyke you’d think it went on forever in all directions. Just sea and sky.”

He’s been in Winterfell most of his life, but Theon’s blood is still salt and iron and he’ll never forget the sea -- the spray against the rocks, the smell of brine, the way it gets choppy on stormy days and smooth as glass on calm ones. It’s almost hard to believe Sansa’s never seen it.

“But what’s it like, though?” she demands, her blue eyes wide. “Standing on the beach or on the deck of a ship?”

Theon smiles. “It stinks of brine and fish--” Sansa wrinkles her nose “--and on a windy day, standing by the shore, the waves crashing are the only thing you can hear. And out on the open water the waves can get higher than Winterfell’s tallest tower, high enough to capsize entire ships and drag them to the bottom of the sea in the blink of an eye.”

“Sounds terrifying,” she breathes.

“It can be,” he agrees. “But it’s also beautiful. You’ve never seen anything so blue in all your life. And when the sun hits it, it shines like a million sapphires.”

They’re still walking along through the trees, their pace slow, and Theon looks at Sansa again to find her watching him in wonder. “It’s hard to believe such a thing exists,” she murmurs.

“You’ll get to see it for yourself one day,” he replies, voice soft. They rarely talk about their betrothal but they speak even less about this -- about one day leaving Winterfell for the Iron Islands. He can see by the way she averts her gaze and pulls at a thread on her sleeve that the mention of it makes her uncomfortable. It makes him a little uncomfortable, too. Winterfell has been his home for so long -- the Starks like family -- and it makes him both sad and nervous to know he’ll have to leave it all behind one day, maybe forever.

Well, not all. Sansa will be with him, a little piece of Stark and Winterfell and The North by his side for the rest of his life. It’s a surprisingly soothing prospect.

He wonders if she feels the same way about him, but he doubts it.

“I can take you sailing,” he offers, hoping to make her feel better about the idea of living on Pyke. “Teach you to swim.”

She looks up at him with wide eyes again. “Swim?” she asks, giving a little laugh. “I’ve never even thought about swimming.”

“You have to be able to swim in the Iron Islands,” he tells her with a sly smile. “And well, or you’ll be off the meet the Drowned God.”

Sansa laughs. “Are you going to throw me from the cliffs?”

“No,” Theon shakes his head with a chuckle. “But folks fall in all the time and if you’re not strong enough to beat the current you’ll be swept out to sea before you have time to shout for help.”

They walk in silence for a few moments as Theon lets Sansa contemplate all he’s said. He can tell by the look on her face that there’s some other question she wants to ask and he waits patiently for her to find the words.

“Are there--” she pauses, hesitating, her eyes low. “Are there really krakens?”

“No one knows for sure,” he tells her, bemused. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve got uncles who swear that they have.”

“Really?” she asks, looking up at him curiously. “What do they say?”

Theon shrugs. “Well, Victarion tells a tale about when he was young -- younger than I am now -- sailing on one of my grandfather’s ships. He says he was up in the crow’s nest one morning, keeping a lookout, when he saw this massive shadow moving just beneath the surface of the water.”

“And it was a kraken?” she breathes, hanging on his every word.

He laughs. “Who knows? Victarion certainly thought it was but he’s the only one who saw anything and it was just a shadow, if it was even real.”

“You think he’s lying?” she asks.

“Sailors tell stories,” he explains. “I don’t know what Victarion saw. Victarion doesn’t know what Victarion saw. It could’ve been a kraken or a whale or nothing but only one of those makes for a good story.”

“And your other uncles?” she asks. “What stories do they tell?”

“Euron is the only other one with stories like that,” he replies. “And he’s got plenty of them, but who knows how true they are. Euron’s sailed all over the world. Gone further west than maybe any man living. If you believe what he says.”

Sansa eyes him suspiciously. “And is _he_ a liar?”

Theon laughs. “Oh, definitely. He wasn’t around much when I was small, always off on some campaign or expedition, but every time he came back to Pyke he had some story that was more unbelievable than the last time. Krakens and mermaids and selkies -- he swears he’s seen them all.”

“Mermaids?” Sansa questions, her face brightening. “Mermaids are real?”

“I doubt it,” Theon answers honestly. “Though my brother, Maron, always believed it. Used to insist he was going to marry himself a mermaid one day.”

“Marry a mermaid?” Sansa laughs again and Theon feels something like relief blooming in the pit of his stomach. He has no idea what sort of husband he’s going to be to Sansa, but at the very least he can make her laugh. “He must not have been planning on having any sons then.”

“Oh, I’m sure he planned to try,” Theon smirks at her and she looks away, blushing. “But heirs aren’t as important to second born sons, I suppose, not while their older brothers are yet living.”

She nods and then after a moment, quietly asks, “Do you miss them? Your brothers, I mean.”

He thinks about it before replying, “I never really spent much time with them. They were both so much older than I was. I was around my sister a lot more.”

“And do you miss her?” is Sansa’s next question. “I forget sometimes that you even have a sister.”

Theon nods. “So do I, honestly.”

He’s taken a few steps before he realizes Sansa isn’t beside him any longer. Turning around, he sees her stopped a few paces back, watching him with a strange look in her eye.

“What?” he asks.

“That’s very sad,” she replies. “I can’t imagine forgetting Arya. Or any of my siblings.”

Theon sighs. “I can’t imagine forgetting them, either. But I was only eight when I was taken from the Isles. I’ve no idea the sort of person my sister even is now.”

Sansa sighs and softly repeats, “That’s very sad. I suppose I’ve never really thought about what your being here means for your family.”

Theon shrugs. “Mostly it means my brothers are dead.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, looking a little shocked at his cavalier attitude towards his brothers’ mortality.

“If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be here,” he explains. “I only have value because I’m my father’s heir now. If one of my brothers was still alive, he’d be here now ensuring my father’s good behaviour.”

Sansa shifts awkwardly at his bluntness. This is another thing nobody ever really talks about -- the fact that Theon is technically a prisoner in Winterfell. The Starks have been good to him, of course -- treated him like a respected guest and raised him among their own children -- but he’s still a hostage. If Balon Greyjoy ever steps out of line again, Ned Stark has a duty to take Theon’s head and that’s something not easily forgotten.

“But I suppose we’re both better off with things as they are,” he goes on, trying to lighten the mood once more. “You could be betrothed to one of them.”

She looks up at him in surprise, looking as if she can’t decide if she should be scandalized or laughing. When Theon gives her a wink, she apparently chooses the latter, a girlish giggle bursting forth from her like she wasn’t expecting it.

“That’s awful,” she tells him, though she’s still smiling like she can’t help it.

He leans towards her, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and replies, “So were they.”

Now she does look scandalized, though there’s still humour in her eyes. “You shouldn’t say such things!” she scolds.

“They’ve said much worse about me,” he argues. “I can promise you that.”

“Well, that’s what older brothers do,” she says. “I should know.”

Theon shakes his head. “You don’t know how lucky you are. I would’ve gladly killed for older brothers like Robb and Jon. They love you.”

Her face suddenly changes, all humour disappearing, replaced with something like pity or perhaps concern. “Your brothers didn’t love you?”

“My brothers didn’t love anything,” he answers. “Except ale and the open water. And torturing me, of course.”

They’ve begun walking again, side-by-side. They’re slowly making a lap of the Godswood and Theon can see the stone archway leading to the courtyard ahead of them. They walk in silence and when Theon glances at Sansa again it’s to find her staring down at the leaves and grass at their feet, a look of deep thought on her face.

When they reach the archway they stop, turning to face one another. Sansa finally looks at him again, a small crease between her eyebrows, and opens her mouth to speak when suddenly they’re interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing. They both turn to see Jon watching them.

“Your mother is looking for you,” he tells Sansa stiffly. 

“Of course,” she nods and looks quickly back at Theon. “We’ll speak again tomorrow then, I suppose.”

“Right,” Theon replies awkwardly, taking a half-step away from her. She gives him a tight smile and darts off. 

Jon is still standing there, watching him, and Theon turns to him with raised eyebrows. “Something I can do for you, Snow?”

“I told you to stay away from her,” Jon replies, voice low.

“And I told you I couldn’t guarantee anything,” Theon shoots back on instinct. Then, remembering Robb’s challenge, goes on more calmly. “We were just talking.”

“I hope so,” Jon says before turning and stalking off towards the training yard. 

Theon watches him go, unsure if he’s more annoyed by Jon’s assumptions about him or because he interrupted his conversation with Sansa. Deciding that perhaps fighting Jon in the training yard won’t count against Robb’s challenge -- especially as it was Robb’s idea -- he turns around and follows him, fingers itching for a sword.

XxXx

Sansa finds her mother on the catwalks that overlook the courtyard, Arya already with her. They’re looking down at the men sparring in the training yard, her sister watching eagerly but her mother looking mostly uninterested.

“Mother,” Sansa says as she approaches.

Catelyn and Arya both turn, Lady Stark smiling warmly at her eldest daughter and Arya immediately turning back around, more interested in the melee below.

“There you are,” Catelyn greets her as Sansa comes to a stop, leaning against the railing and peering down at the fighters. 

“Jon said you were looking for me,” she replies just as she sees her half-brother hop the fence of the training yard and join the fray.

Her mother’s face pinches in at the mention of Jon, but the look is gone in a flash and she says, “Yes, I wanted to speak with you. Both of you.”

Sansa faces her mother and Arya straightens and turns to them as well, though she keeps one eye on the fighting. “What about?” Sansa asks.

“Your father and the other men have decided there is to be a hunt,” Catelyn explains and now Arya is giving their mother her full attention. “For the day after tomorrow.”

“Can I go?” Arya excitedly questions.

“You most certainly cannot,” Catelyn replies. “I need both of you here. With all the men gone I’ll need your help to entertain the ladies.”

Arya makes a face. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you have to,” Catelyn answers, her voice serious but an exasperated smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

Arya sighs, annoyed, and slumps over the railing again. Sansa turns to their mother, amused. “And what shall we do to entertain the ladies?”

“The usual, I expect,” Catelyn sighs. “Tea and gossip and needlepoint.”

Arya groans. “Please can I go on the hunt?” she begs.

“No,” Catelyn orders, more forceful this time. “And I’ll hear no more of it.”

Arya purses her lips. “Yes, mother.”

“And I’d like to have luncheon,” Catelyn goes on now that Arya has acquiesced. “Just the three of us. Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Any particular reason?” Sansa asks.

“We’ve been surrounded by guests for days now,” Catelyn says, reaching out to brush Sansa’s hair off her shoulder. “I just wanted to spend an hour or two with my girls.”

Sansa smiles and nods and even Arya seems somewhat soothed by this. “Of course, Mother.”

“Right,” Catelyn goes on, glancing down at the training yard again and giving her daughters a sly smile. “I’ll leave you girls to your morning, then.”

Catelyn sweeps off and Sansa leans against the railing next to her sister. They watch the fighting in silence for a moment, laughing as they see Robb giving pointers to Rickon, wearing a helmet that’s too big for him.

A familiar bark of laughter catches Sansa’s attention and she scans the melee until she finds Theon. He’s sparring with Jon, unsurprisingly, and her eyes follow him as they circle each other around the training yard. He’s light on his feet and keeps shouting japes at Jon who she can tell from here is getting more and more frustrated. Theon isn’t attacking at all, she notices after a moment, just inciting Jon to lunge forward and then blocking his attacks with a laugh.

It’s all just a game to Theon and Sansa finds herself rolling her eyes, though she can feel the corners of her lips curling upwards.

Jon’s the better swordsman but Theon is quicker and more graceful. By refusing to truly engage he’s able to dance around Jon, wearing him out and getting him angry until finally he makes a mistake, lunging at the wrong moment and allowing Theon to smack him the middle of his back with the flat of his blade. Jon lets out a shout, the words of which Sansa can’t quite hear, and Theon laughs, moving away to lean against the fence of the training yard and catch his breath.

Sansa hasn’t even noticed the smile that’s crossed her face as she watches him until Arya suddenly clears her throat, bringing her sister’s attention back to her. When Sansa turns, it’s to find Arya smiling at her in a strange, knowing sort of way.

“What are you smirking at?” Sansa asks, uncomfortable under her sister’s gaze.

“Oh, what do you think?” Arya laughs. “You’re ogling Theon.”

Sansa feels her eyes go wide. “I am not!”

“You are too,” Arya shoots back. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. He’s exactly the person you’re supposed to be ogling, isn’t he?”

“W-- I-- J--,” Sansa sputters, utterly scandalized at the suggestion. Arya laughs again, harder this time, and Sansa huffs in annoyance. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure I don’t,” Arya replies, still smirking. “You’ve just suddenly taken up an interest in fighting.”

“I’ve always liked tourneys,” Sansa retorts.

“You’ve always liked _knights_ ,” Arya argues. “You only ever pay attention to the jousting. You hate the melee.”

Sansa is at a loss for words again and instead turns away from her sister, back to the railing of the catwalk, pointedly not looking down at the men below.

“Don’t worry,” Arya goes on, and even though she’s not looking at her anymore, Sansa can still hear the laughter in her voice. “I won’t tell Robb.”

Sansa whips her head back around and angrily replies, “There’s nothing to tell!” before spinning on her heel and marching off. 

She can hear Arya laughing at her as she goes.

XxXx

Once they’ve had their fill of sport for the day, Theon and the other men head back into the castle. Many of them make first for the Great Hall and a mug of ale but Theon turns towards the end of the castle where the family sleeps, wanting nothing more than to get out of his sweaty clothes.

Before he reaches the stone steps that lead up to his chamber, though, he hears the sound of soft footfalls and looks up to Sansa approaching from the other direction. Their eyes meet briefly and he’s about to smile at her when her gaze quickly darts away, down to the gray flagstone floor. She passes him by without saying a word and he watches her go, confused, turning all the way around and coming to a halt.

“Something the matter?” he calls to her.

She stops walking, back still to him, and sighs. “No,” she replies over her shoulder.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he asks, glancing down at himself quickly. “I know I took a few hits out there but it can’t be that bad. I didn’t even lose any teeth.”

She turns slowly to face him and shakes her head. “It’s not that.”

“But it is something,” he says. “We were friends this morning. What happened?”

Sansa rolls her eyes, though whether it’s at him or herself, he has no idea. “Arya.”

“And what did Arya do?” he asks, half concerned, half amused.

“Nothing,” Sansa tells him, clearly frustrated about something. “She just doesn’t stop talking sometimes.”

They’re getting to the bottom of it now and Theon carefully asks, “Talking about what?”

Sansa’s eyes meet his and she quickly replies, “Nothing. Nothing important.”

She’s never been a very good liar, but he can tell by the way her gaze drops and she doesn’t meet his eye that he shouldn’t press it. He’s at an utter loss, though. He can’t imagine what Arya could have said to her to make her this uncomfortable around him. Arya is rather close with Jon, though, so who knows what sort of lies he’s told her about him.

“Are you heading to the Great Hall?” he asks her, trying to change the subject.

“No,” she answers. “I was just doing some sowing in my mother’s parlour when I ran out of the thread I needed. I was going to see if I had some in my chamber.”

Theon nods. “I was just headed up, as well. Wanted to change before dinner.” He steps aside, awkward, and gestures towards the stairs. “After you.”

She gives him a tight smile and ducks her head as she goes by. He follows, a few steps behind her, and does his best to keep his eyes down. It’s not an easy feat, however, and he finds his gaze slowing creeping up to watch the sway of her hips.

He swallows, tears his eyes away, and tries to think of something else. “What did you mother want?”

“Hmm?” she asks, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“Jon said your mother wanted to speak with you,” he replies. “Anything interesting?”

“Not really,” Sansa tells him, her voice echoing back at him down the stone stairwell. “Just that we’re to entertain the ladies while you’re all off hunting.”

“Robb told me about the hunt,” Theon says. “Apparently Alys Karstark is coming.”

Sansa laughs. “Arya will be _thrilled_ to hear that. She begged my mother to let her go.”

They’ve reached the top of the stairs where Theon turns left and Sansa right. They both stop, turning to face each other.

“Well, wherever Robb goes, Alys goes,” Theon says, voice low. 

“I’ve noticed,” Sansa replies, whispering conspiratorially as well. “Are they…?”

“I’ve no idea,” Theon answers honestly. “He hasn’t mentioned it, which means one of two things: he doesn’t like her at all, or he likes her _very much_.”

Sansa, ever the romantic, smiles. “Oh, I hope it’s the latter. She’s a sweet girl. And it would be a good match.”

“It would,” Theon allows. Politically and personally it would be a very good match.

“And just think of the beautiful red-haired children they’d have,” she goes on, that wistful look from earlier back on her face.

“If they’re lucky, they’ll all look just like their aunt,” he replies without thinking. He realizes what he said a moment later when her eyes go wide and the colour rises in her cheeks. Her gaze quickly darts away and he opens his mouth to say something, though he has no idea what, when she gets there first.

“I should go look for that thread,” she murmurs.

“Right,” he says stupidly. “And I should go get washed.”

Sansa nods, turning around and quickly walking off towards her chamber. Theon watches her go, sighing at himself as he hears her door closing before turning and making his way towards his own room.


	5. Chapter 4

As it turns out Sansa does not have the thread she needs in her chamber and it’s too late in the day to get it just then so she puts her sowing aside for the evening and wakes early enough the next morning to go down to the village and get more before anyone notices she’s gone. She considers asking one of the servants to go for her but with the castle full of guests, they’re all busy enough. Besides, she doesn’t mind the excuse to take a wander through the market that’s been set up in Wintertown for the festival.

She’s in the courtyard, waiting for her horse to be saddled, when she hears the familiar sound of an arrow whipping through the air and sticking in a straw target. She hears it again and again and eventually follows it around to the training yard where she finds Theon, bow in hand and a look of determination on his face.

He hasn’t noticed her yet, pulling another arrow from the quiver at his hip and drawing it back, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. For a split second he’s completely still, totally in control, and then he looses the arrow, sending it soaring towards the target where it misses the bullseye by a hair.

When he glances down to reach for another arrow he catches sight of her and stops. She takes a breath, shaking off the strange feeling that had just come over her, and says. “Sorry. I was just waiting for my horse and heard you.”

“It’s fine,” he replies, making his way over to the edge of the training yard and leaning on the railing. “Where are you going?”

She walks forward as well, coming to a stop on the other side of the short wooden fence. “Just into the village. I need more thread.”

He nods. “You’re going on your own?”

“Jory’s coming,” she shrugs. “And I don’t mean to be long.”

“Right,” he replies, and an awkward silence creeps over them.

She feels bad about yesterday, but she doesn’t know what to say to him. He’d paid her a compliment and she’d just walked off. That had been rude of her, but it had just been so unexpected and she’d panicked. It wasn’t fair of her, though. It had been her idea that they spend time together and try to build some sort of relationship before they have to be married and yet he’s the one doing all the work.

“Unless,” she swallows. “Unless, you wanted to accompany me?”

He looks up at her in surprise. “If you want me to.”

“Might as well,” she replies, going for teasing. “We agreed to talk every day, why not get it out of the way early?”

He smiles. “Alright. Give me a moment to get my horse saddled.”

He meets her in the courtyard a few minutes later and together they ride through Winterfell’s gates, Jory Cassel and two other guards a few yards behind them.

It’s a lovely morning, clear blue sky stretching to the horizon. Winter may have ended more than a month ago, but there’s still a chill in the air, especially this early, and patches of grass are white with frost.

“Do you remember the last time it was so green?” Theon suddenly asks, and Sansa turns to find him watching her as she takes in their surroundings.

“I was fourteen when the snows really came,” she answers. “I remember a few days before that first big storm when you and Robb and Jon decided to go out riding. Arya wanted so badly to go with you but Mother would only let her if I went, too.”

“And you hated every second of it, if I recall,” Theon replies, smirking at her. “Too cold and too much mud.”

“Imagine me thinking _that_ was too cold,” she laughs. “After the winter we just had.”

“Was that your first winter?” he asks, brow furrowed. “I’m trying to remember how long it’s been since the last one.”

“I was born in the winter,” she tells him. “But this is the first one I’ll remember. Do you remember the last winter?”

“Barely,” he answers. “I was still in the Isles, then. It doesn’t snow there like it does here.”

They’re quiet for a moment before Sansa quietly asks, “Do you think we’ll see another winter in the North?”

Theon’s eyes scan out across the horizon before he replies, “I’ve never thought much about it. But my father’s not a young man.”

Sansa swallows. She may never see another Northern winter and she hadn’t even realized it. “What is winter like in the Iron Islands?”

Theon thinks about it for a moment. “Wet. I remember that quite well. And icy. All those cliffs that are wet with spray in every other season are covered in ice during winter.”

“Sounds treacherous,” she says, and not for the first time feels a pang of fear at the idea of one day having to live in such a place. It’s not just that it will be new and strange and full of people she doesn’t know -- all that is bad enough -- but it sounds like a genuinely dangerous place. 

He must be able to read the trepidation in her face because he quickly goes on. “I know it seems that way, and I don’t remember it well, but I do remember my mother taking my sister and I for a walk through Lordsport one evening.”

“Lordsport,” she repeats, remembering her lessons. “That’s the main port on Pyke, isn’t it?”

He glances at her with a small smile. “It is. And it’s one of the wettest places in the world. So, in the winter, everything is covered in ice -- walls and railings and tree branches. I remember walking through the street with my mother after the torches were lit. The flames reflected off of everything and it was like all the stars had come down to the ground.”

He’s not looking at her anymore, his gaze far-off. She tries to picture it in her mind’s eye -- the little port town tucked into the side of the cliffs, the waves lapping at the shore, the thick sheets of ice bowing the tree branches -- and all of it bathed in the warm glow of twinkling firelight, reflected a million times over. It sounds like the stuff of the fairy stories she used to love as a girl and for maybe the first time, she finds she’s looking forward to something about the Iron Islands.

Wintertown is just down the hill from Winterfell and they reach it after only a few minutes of riding. Early as it is, the village is already bustling, people moving back and forth between shops and market vendors. The streets are too busy to remain on horseback so they dismount, letting one of the guards lead the horses off to the nearby stables.

“So what did you need to get?” Theon asks, scanning the market.

“Thread,” Sansa explains. “I’ve been working on a new gown but I ran out of the purple silk thread I need.”

“Purple silk thread,” Theon nods, looking around attentively as though he’s expecting some to just appear.

Sansa laughs. “This way. They’ll have it at the dressmakers.”

She leads Theon across the market to the dress shop she’s been frequenting since she was a girl. Jory waits outside as they go in and Sansa makes quick work of purchasing the supplies she needs. 

Jory straightens as they exit the shop. “Shall we head back to the castle, m’Lady?”

Sansa glances around at all the stalls and vendors before replying, “Not just yet. I may not get another chance to see the Dawn Market before it’s gone.”

“As you say, m’Lady,” he nods.

She doesn’t miss the way his eyes quickly glance towards Theon, though. Jory and Theon get along well, as far as she knows, but she still can’t help but wonder what this must look like to him, Theon accompanying her into the village, just the two of them. She wonders what he’ll inevitably tell her father about it.

Not that there’s any reason she should be worried, of course. Even if they weren’t betrothed, she and Theon have known each other most of their lives. Why shouldn’t they be friends?

Either way, Jory seems to make a point of keeping his distance as they wander the market, staying just far enough back that Sansa isn’t sure if he can hear them or not. They meander their way through the stalls, looking at all the wares. There’s wine from the Arbor, golden jewellery from Casterly Rock, and one particular trinket merchant who catches Sansa’s eye.

“Goods from all across the Seven Kingdoms!” he calls out, a hunched old man with thinning white hair. “From Dorne to the Wall! From the Fingers to the Iron Islands!”

At the mention of the Isles, she catches Theon’s eye. “Do you want to see what he has?”

“Might as well,” Theon shrugs.

They approach the stall and the man smiles broadly at them. He’s no fool, Sansa can tell right away as he glances over them, taking in their fine clothes and the Stark guards shadowing them a few feet off. 

“M’Lord, m’Lady,” he greets them with a bow. He can’t know for sure exactly who they are but the castle is brimming with nobles and it’s probably no surprise that a couple have spilled out into the village.

“We hear you have wares from the Iron Islands,” she says, smiling slyly up at Theon. “Anything that might impress the future lord of Pyke?”

The man’s eyes widen slightly and he stares up at Theon. “The young Lord Greyjoy is it, then?”

“Aye,” Theon nods, puffing his chest out proudly. 

“I was born on Harlaw, myself,” the man tells him, a smile pulling his lips apart.

Sansa sees Theon smile. “My mother is a Harlaw.”

“Of which I am well aware, m’Lord,” he replies, tapping a finger to his temple. “And you’ve got the look of the Harlaws, if you don’t mind my saying.”

She watches as Theon glances down at himself, a strange look on his face, before clearing his throat. “I don’t mind.”

“But the young Lady has asked to see my wares!” the merchant suddenly goes on, perhaps trying to change the subject. “And I believe I may have one item worthy of her.”

He stoops, pulling something up from beneath his counter, and carefully holds it out towards Sansa. In the palm of his hand sits a necklace. It’s a thin iron chain with a seashell hanging from it, a pearl threaded through the links just above it.

“It’s lovely,” she murmurs. She’s surprised by how much she likes it, simple as it is. It’s not something she ever would have thought to like but as she takes it from him, turning it over in her hands and watching the way the shifting light makes rainbows dance on the shell, she can’t help but find it beautiful.

“The chain is made from iron mined on Harlaw,” the merchant tells them. “And the shell is one I found myself, on the beaches of Pyke, that perfect, fat, little pearl just waiting for me.”

“You made it yourself?” Sansa asks him with a smile. “You’re very talented.”

“You’re too kind, m’Lady,” he says. “I’m honoured to hear you like it.”

Theon has been quiet while she examines the necklace but now he suddenly asks, “How much?”

She looks up at him in surprise. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You like it,” he replies simply and turns back to the merchant. “How much?”

“For a son of the Iron Islands?” he replies, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Two silver stags.”

“Done,” Theon says, reaching into the coin pouch at his belt.

The purchase has been made before Sansa has anymore chance to protest and the merchant has taken the necklace from her and carefully placed it in a small, velvet bag before handing it back.

They thank him and turn back to the market, heading towards the stables and their horses. There are even more people milling about now than there was before and Sansa finds herself being jostled by the crowd. Theon must notice because he quickly offers her his arm, which she gladly takes, letting him lead her through the throng of early-morning shoppers.

“Thank you for the necklace,” she tells him softly as they wait for their horses. “You really didn’t have to.”

Theon shrugs. “I could see you wanted it.”

“Still,” she insists, looking up at him. “Thank you.”

He meets her eye, swallows. “You’re welcome.”

They aren’t walking anymore, but her arm is still threaded through his, their faces just inches apart. She’s suddenly very aware of the sound of her own heartbeat, especially when Theon’s eyes quickly -- almost too quick to notice -- flash down to her lips and then back up.

At that moment, though, they are interrupted by the sound of hooves and jump away from each other, both looking away towards the guard approaching with their mounts. She can tell from his face that he’s making a point of not looking at either of them but when she turns her head, she finds Jory making no such effort. He briefly meets Sansa’s gaze with a serious look in his eye before moving to take his own horse.

They ride back to the castle in relative silence, dismounting their horses in the courtyard and allowing Jory and the guards to lead them off to the stables. Finally alone, Sansa and Theon stand awkwardly a few feet apart, Sansa picking at the hem of her sleeve, Theon with his hands clasped behind his back. Their eyes don’t meet. Whatever strange sensation had come over her back in Wintertown, she fears he must have noticed.

“I should go find my mother,” Sansa finally breaks the silence. “She wanted to have luncheon today.”

“Right,” Theon nods. “I’m sure Robb’s looking for me by now, too.”

“I’ll see you at dinner, then, I suppose,” she goes on.

“See you at dinner,” he replies.

With that they turn away from each other, Theon heading back towards the training yard and Sansa hastily making for the castle doors.

XxXx

Theon doesn’t go in search of Robb. Given what he thinks he almost just did, being around Robb is probably not the best idea at the moment. Instead, he makes for the training yard and his bow. 

He stands before the target and takes a deep breath. There’s a slight shake to his hands and he flexes his fingers, trying to steady them. He pulls an arrow from the quiver he clipped to his belt, nocks and draws. 

He knows the second he releases it that it’s off target. Annoyed he reaches for another arrow, drawing it back, taking a breath, and --

_Had he really just thought about kissing Sansa?_

\-- the arrow goes wide and Theon groans to himself, running a hand through his hair.

Yes, he had just thought about kissing Sansa, as they stood on the edge of the market in Wintertown. He has no idea what came over him except that she’d been so close, still hanging onto his arm, and so warm and soft and _there_ and it had suddenly occurred to him how easy it would be to just lean down and find out how those red lips taste.

And, perhaps worse, even now he isn’t sure if he’s more relieved or annoyed that they were interrupted before he could.

He shakes himself, trying to think about anything else, and nocks another arrow. This one doesn’t land any truer than the last two and Theon huffs a sigh.

“You’re not keeping your elbow up,” a voice behind him calls and he whips are to see Jory Cassel leaning on the railing that surrounds the training yard. “My father taught you better than that.”

Theon eyes him suspiciously for a moment. He likes Jory -- he’s always liked Jory -- but he also knows Jory was watching him and Sansa the whole time they were in the village. There’s no doubt he saw the moment that had passed between them.

He turns back around, drawing another arrow, and making sure not to drop his elbow. He can feel Jory’s eyes on his back and again, when he lets his arrow fly, it sticks in the outer edge of the target, no where near centre. 

“Or maybe there’s another problem,” Jory says and Theon turns to him again. “Something got you distracted, m’Lord?”

Theon swallows. “No. Probably just too much festivities.”

“Ah,” Jory nods. “I’m sure that’s it. Doesn’t have anything to do with you and the young Lady going down to the village this morning.”

Theon’s eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say?”

Jory sighs. “I’d like to think we’re friends, Theon. I hope that’s not an overstep.”

Jory’s father, Ser Rodrik, has been Winterfell’s Master at Arms for more than thirty years. He may be a bit older than Theon and the rest, but Jory grew up here, too, training with the Stark children just like he had. Theon does consider him a friend.

“It’s not,” he replies.

“Glad to hear it,” Jory nods. “So, as your _friend_ , may I offer a piece of advice?”

Theon shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t know what Jory is going to say but he knows it’s about Sansa. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“We all know Lady Sansa is your intended,” Jory states in the matter-of-fact way of someone who’s never been made uncomfortable by that knowledge. “But we also all know your reputation with girls. Lord Stark won’t take kindly to you hanging around his daughter, not if he doesn’t know your intentions.”

“My intentions,” Theon repeats, mostly to himself. “And what do you think my intentions are?”

“I don’t know,” Jory replies. “But I sure know what it looked like this morning.”

“We’re allowed to be friends,” Theon shoots back, feeling defensive.

“Aye,” Jory agrees. “And she’ll be your wife one day, but until then you had better treat her honourably.”

Theon feels his fingers clench into a fist, angry. Jory, Jon Snow, they all just expect the worst from him. “And who says I haven’t?”

“No one,” Jory says. “Not yet. Just be sure it stays that way, is all I’m saying. You were lucky it was me that was with you today and not her father or one of her brothers.”

Theon opens his mouth to retort but stops himself. Maybe Jory is doing him a favour. If Robb had seen him look at Sansa the way he did he’d probably have broken his nose. He doesn’t want to think about what Lord Eddard would do to him if he heard some rumor about Theon pursuing Sansa like he would some serving girl.

Instead, he nods. “It’s not--” he hesitates and Jory watches him patiently. “I don’t mean her any dishonour.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Jory replies, pushing himself upright off the railing. “But, sadly, what I think doesn’t matter much. _I_ know you’re a good lad, but the same can’t be said for everyone.”

He gives Theon a meaningful look before he turns and walks off. Theon watches him go. 

There’s no harm in him taking a ride into the village or walking through the Godswood with Sansa, he knows that. But he also knows the way people like to gossip, especially bored nobles. It would be all too easy for someone to see them together and get the wrong idea. He’d hate for Lord Eddard to hear some tale second-hand and decide it’s in Sansa’s best interest to keep her away from him. He’d hate for him to decide that Theon isn’t worthy of his daughter after all.

And, without dwelling too deeply on that thought, he turns back to the target, reaching for another arrow.

XxXx

Sansa can’t stop thinking about Theon. Hard as she’s trying to focus on what her mother is saying about having to keep Lady Hornwood and Lady Dustin away from one another, her mind keeps going back to her morning in Wintertown with Theon and the seashell necklace he’d bought her and the way he’d looked at her as they stood side-by-side.

She’s being silly, of course. A silly, little girl with silly romantic dreams about handsome young lords looking at her as though she were the greatest beauty he’d ever seen. Or, perhaps more accurately, like he wanted to ravish her right there in the middle of the marketplace. 

Sansa reaches for her teacup, taking a long sip as she feels a strange heat rise in her cheeks at the thought.

It’s all just her imagination, of course. She knows Theon doesn’t think of her that way. But, she thinks, perhaps she’s beginning to want him to. Perhaps she had imagined that look of longing into his eyes because she desperately wants to see it there for real.

“Sansa?” she hears her mother say, voice just stern enough to let Sansa know it isn’t the first time she’s called her name.

“Yes, Mother?” Sansa replies, looking up at her mother with what she hopes is an innocent smile.

“Is something the matter?” Catelyn asks, watching her with concern. “You seem distracted by something.”

“No,” Sansa answers quickly, not missing the way Arya snorts into her own teacup. Catelyn doesn’t miss it either, judging by the way her eyes flick to her youngest daughter and back again. “Nothing’s the matter.”

“Then you’ve got your head in the clouds,” Catelyn scolds. “Always the daydreamer.”

“It’s not that,” Sansa defends. “I suppose I’m just tired. I was up rather late last night with Robb and the rest.”

She can feel Arya glance at her at the near-mention of Theon but uses every ounce of her willpower not to meet her gaze. Instead, she keeps her eyes on her mother, feeling a wave of relief as Catelyn nods, knowing she’s hit on a change of subject.

“Speaking of your brother,” Catelyn begins. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about Alys Karstark. They’ve been spending a good deal of time together from what I can tell.”

“I noticed that, too,” Sansa tells her. “And they did seem rather… close last night.”

Catelyn gives her a stern look. “Not _too_ close, I hope.”

Arya snorts again and Sansa quickly shakes her head. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just mean they sat together the whole night, laughing to themselves half the time. He seems to like her, though I can’t say how much.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the one to ask, now would you?” Arya gives her sister a sly smile. “I bet _Theon_ knows.”

She’s expecting Sansa to panic, but if there’s one thing Sansa hates, it’s giving Arya what she wants, so instead she meets her sister’s look head-on.

“Actually, I’ve already asked Theon about it,” she replies, watching with satisfaction as the smile slides off Arya’s face, replaced with a look of annoyance. Knowing she’s won, Sansa turns back to their mother. “He doesn’t know anymore than I do. Robb hasn’t mentioned it to him.”

Catelyn sighs. “I hate to say it, but it’s getting high time Robb was married. Alys Karstark would be a good choice.”

“A spring wedding in the Godswood would be lovely,” Sansa agrees, a smile crossing her face at the thought of it.

She can see it all now -- the lanterns lighting the bride’s path like fairies, the trees all bright with bloom, the ancient weirwood watching over all of it. Lords and Ladies from across the North would watch with pride at the union of a child of House Stark.

She can even hear the words.

_Who comes here this night?_

_Who claims her?_

_Sansa, of House Stark._

_Theon, of House Greyjoy._

A lemon cake crumbles in Sansa’s hands as she realizes the direction her daydreams had taken without her permission. Chunks of pastry fall onto her plate and she finds her fingers coated in the thick, yellow, lemony goodness she usually loves so much. Suddenly, however, she finds she doesn’t have much appetite for it.

“Sansa, are you sure you’re alright?” Catelyn asks as Sansa wipes her fingers on her napkin. Arya is watching her too, though her look is less concerned than amused.

“I’m fine, Mother,” Sansa assures her, smiling in what she hopes is a convincing manner.

Catelyn watches her suspiciously, her eyes quickly darting over to Arya who’s gaze Sansa is pointedly not meeting again. Her mother isn’t stupid, Sansa knows. She can surely tell there’s something her daughters aren’t saying, something that has Arya amused and Sansa nervous. The question is, will she ask?

Evidently, she decides not to, at least not right now, because she turns to Arya instead. “And what about the Glover boy?”

Now it’s Sansa’s turn to choke back a laugh as Arya’s eyes go wide and she looks at their mother in horror. “What about him?”

“He seems to be paying you quite a bit of attention,” Catelyn explains. She’s just teasing, Sansa can tell, but she doesn’t think Arya has realized it yet. “Perhaps it won’t be _Robb’s_ spring wedding in the Godswood.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Arya replies in a strangled tone, a look of disgust on her face. She shakes her head, a thought apparently occurring to her. “And besides, I can’t get married before my older sister!”

She rounds on said sister with a smirk and Sansa shoots her a glare.

Catelyn sighs. “Sansa’s circumstances are… different than yours. You know that.”

“Oh, I know,” Arya replies meaningfully, eyes still on Sansa. “All the more reason she should be married first. She’s been betrothed since she was three.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there,” Catelyn says. Sansa knows this subject makes her mother uncomfortable, knows she has a grudge against Theon and isn’t looking forward to sending her eldest daughter off to the Iron Islands.

Still, though, Sansa finds herself asking without thinking, “When will Theon and I be married?”

She knows as soon as the words leave her mouth that it was a mistake. Arya goes dead silent, her eyes eagerly darting back and forth between Sansa and their mother. Catelyn seems shocked into silence for a moment before recomposing herself with a deep breath.

“There’s no rush,” Catelyn answers slowly. “Not while Balon Greyjoy yet lives.”

“So, not until his father has died?” she asks.

Catelyn nods, but an unsure look crosses her face. “Unless, you were hoping for it to be sooner than that?”

Sansa swallows and vigorously shakes her head. “No. It’s just-- since we were talking about it-- I was just wondering…”

“Of course,” Catelyn replies, clearly glad to accept this response over the alternative. “Of course with all this talk of weddings it would cross your mind.”

“Right,” Sansa agrees. “That’s all it was.”

When she glances at Arya again, it’s to find her watching both of them with a look of bemused disbelief on her face.

“But getting back to the matter at hand,” Catelyn forges ahead, ignoring the tension in the air. “I need to know I can count on the two of you for tomorrow.”

“Is it true that Alys Karstark is going with the men?” Sansa asks, picking at the ruins of her lemon cake.

“ _And_ Meera Reed _and_ the Mormont girls,” Arya gripes, turning to Catelyn. “Lyanna Mormont is even younger than I am. It’s not fair.”

“Well, Lyanna Mormont is not my daughter,” Catelyn replies. “If she were she would be staying right here, as well.”

“What do you even need me for?” Arya whines. “I’m not going to be any help entertaining a bunch of old snobs.”

“Arya,” Catelyn warns. “You will not speak about our guests that way.”

“Fine,” Arya rolls her eyes. “But you know I’m right. I won’t be any help. Just let me go on the hunt!”

“Alright, you can go,” Catelyn agrees, but the smile that crosses her face let’s Sansa know there’s going to be a catch. “As long as your sister goes with you.”

Arya’s face, which had momentarily been alight with joy, immediately falls and Sansa doesn’t blame her. She has no desire to go out into the mud and the trees to watch her father and brothers kill something, as Catelyn well knows.

“Please, Sansa,” Arya begs, turning to her sister with wide, pleading eyes. “I won’t bother you again for the rest of the festival, I promise!”

It’s a tempting offer, Sansa must admit. The festival isn’t even half over yet and the idea of having Arya out of her hair for more than a week is certainly an attractive one. She knows her mother is counting on her to say no, though.

Before she has a chance to reply, Arya goes on, “And you never know. You might just have fun.”

Normally Sansa would scoff at the suggestion but she can tell by the look in Arya’s eye that she’s not referring to Sansa finding joy in the hunt itself, but perhaps in one of the hunters.

And _there’s_ something that Sansa hadn’t considered. Going on the hunt with the men is an opportunity to spend an entire day in Theon’s company without it seeming strange to anyone. Robb will likely be off with Alys Karstark and Arya will keep Jon busy which means she and Theon will be left with no other entertainment but each other.

“Fine,” Sansa gives in, trying to sound as reluctant as possible. “I’ll go. As long as Mother is really alright with it.”

Both girls turn back to Catelyn who sighs. “Well, I suppose I can’t say no now.”

“Yes!” Arya exclaims in delight. “Thank you!”

Catelyn turns to Sansa with an exasperated expression but Sansa just shrugs apologetically. “I’d never hear the end of it if I said no,” she tries to reason.

Her mother sighs again, but nods. “You’re probably right.”

“Besides,” Sansa teases, glancing at her sister again. “One way or another she’s going to end up killing something tomorrow, better it be a stag than Lady Dustin.”

Arya shoots her a glare but when Catelyn huffs a laugh Sansa knows that she’s won. “You make a fair point.”

“You don’t need to worry about Lady Dustin,” Arya rolls her eyes, though there’s a smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. “But if Lady Glover doesn’t stop shoving her son at me…”

Sansa and Catelyn both laugh but, as they finish their meal, no one makes any more mention of marriages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I grew up in Niagara Falls and Theon's description of Lordsport in the winter is based on what the area around the falls looks like during the annual Festival of Lights.


	6. Chapter 5

The next day dawns bright and Theon is awoken early by a tap at his chamber door. He sits up, groggy, and runs a hand through his hair. The sun is just barely peeking over the horizon outside but already he can tell it’s going to be a good day for a hunt.

“Come in,” he calls out and the door opens.

Marilla the serving girl steps inside, giving him a polite smile and a short bow. “G’morning, m’Lord,” she greets him. “Fresh water for the basin.”

“Thank you,” he replies as she moves to pour out the pot she’s carrying. “Is anybody else awake yet?”

“Lord Stark and Lord Robb have both been woken,” she tells him. “And I’m off the the young Ladies’ rooms next.”

“The young Ladies?” Theon asks, surprised.

“Yes, m’Lord,” she says, making her way back to the door. “I’ve been told they’re to accompany you on the hunt.”

Theon huffs a laugh. “I wonder how Arya talked Sansa into that.”

“I didn’t think it much sounded like something Lady Sansa would enjoy,” she agrees and then, as though realizing, perhaps, that she’s speaking to Theon and not one of the other servants, quickly adds, “Though I’m sure she’ll have a lovely time.”

“I doubt it,” Theon replies, amused. “But I suppose we shall have to try all the same. Thank you, Marilla.”

“M’Lord,” she smiles, giving another quick bow before leaving the room.

Once the door is firmly shut behind her, Theon sighs to himself. He’d seen Sansa at dinner last night but he hadn’t spoken to her. He had considered taking the empty seat next to hers at the table but, remembering Jory’s warning, he’d thought the better of it, instead sticking close by Robb’s side for most of the night. He’d looked up at one point and she was gone, off to bed, and he’d felt a pang of something like regret which he’d promptly drowned in wine.

Breakfast is waiting for him down in the Great Hall, as are Robb, Jon, and the Karstark siblings. Robb and Jon are sitting across from one another, Alys at Robb’s side, Torrhen at Jon’s. Theon drops into the seat on Robb’s other side.

“Looking forward to today, Greyjoy?” Torrhen asks as Theon piles food onto his plate -- bacon and toast and eggs and sausage, a true feast before the big hunt. “I bet I can shoot more hares than you.”

“You can’t,” Theon replies matter-of-factly around a mouthful of bacon. “But we’re not going out there to shoot hares.”

“We’re going out there to shoot whatever we can,” Torrhen laughs.

Alys rolls her eyes. “You’re such a beast sometimes, Torrhen.”

“We’re going out there to hunt stag,” Robb cuts in. “They’ve finally started moving north again now that winter’s over.”

“You’re all no fun,” Torrhen waves a dismissive hand and turns his attention to his eggs.

Sansa and Arya approach the table then, Arya wearing trousers and a tunic, Sansa in a long green gown, her bright red hair in a thick braid down the middle of her back, tied off with a green velvet ribbon to match her dress. Arya quickly sits down next to Jon, leaving Sansa to choose between the empty spot next to her sister, or the one next to Theon. For a moment he thinks she’s going to choose the former but after a quick glance around the hall she seems to change her mind and sits down beside him instead.

A moment later he sees why when Gawen Glover suddenly appears at the table, taking the only remaining empty seat. Arya, upon seeing this, shoots her sister a glare, to which Sansa replies with a smirk.

“I still can’t believe you’re coming,” Robb says, leaning around Theon to look at his sister.

“Neither can I, frankly,” Sansa replies, reaching for a piece of toast. The platter is just out of reach so Theon lifts it, holding it up while she takes her toast before putting it back down again. “But I wasn’t given much choice.”

“You were given every choice,” Arya retorts. “You didn’t have to say yes.”

“Didn’t I?” Sansa shoots back, spreading marmalade over her toast. She turns to the rest of the table. “Mother says Arya can only go if I go and Arya promises to leave me alone for the rest of the festival if I say yes.”

Theon chuckles. “Meaning she won’t shut up about it if you say no.”

Arya scoffs, throwing the crust she’s just torn off her own toast at him, which he expertly dodges with a laugh. If it happens to mean leaning into Sansa’s shoulder, well, that’s not his fault.

“Precisely,” Sansa agrees, pushing him back upright with one hand and taking a bite of her toast with the other. “What was I to do?”

“Right,” Arya says sarcastically. “I’m sure that’s the _only_ reason you’re coming.”

Sansa shoots her sister a glare but before Theon has a chance to puzzle out what that might mean Alys has leaned forward to look down the table at Sansa, as well.

“Is that really what you’re wearing, Lady Sansa?” she asks. She’s dressed similarly to Arya, in trousers and a tunic, though she manages to make it look slightly more feminine. “Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in a pair of breeches?”

“Honestly, no,” Sansa laughs. “And even if I did, I don’t own any. This dress is the most appropriate thing I have.”

“Least it’s green,” Theon shrugs.

“That’s what I thought,” Sansa agrees, giving him a smile that he can’t help but return.

It’s the first time they’ve even really looked at each other since yesterday morning, Theon realizes, and they hold each other’s gaze for maybe a second too long before turning away. He hopes no one else at the table noticed but judging by the way Jon is glaring at him he’s had no such luck.

Robb, though, seems to remain entirely oblivious, which is far more important than whatever Jon thinks.

They chat about nothing in particular the rest of the way through breakfast, Theon and Sansa exchanging amused glances every now and then as they watch Gawen try to flirt with Arya and Arya do everything in her power not to dump her water goblet over his head. Finally, at the table at the head of the room, Lord Stark stands, his chair making a loud _scrape_ against the stone floor, and the hall falls silent.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he calls to them all, smiling. “Have we eaten our fill?”

A shout of affirmation goes up all across the hall, a few men banging their fists against the wooden tabletops, rattling the silverware. Lord Eddard gives a laugh and waves a hand to bring them all to order once more.

“Then to the hunt!” he announces.

Immediately the Great Hall is a flurry of movement and sound as everyone begins rising from their tables and talking excitedly as they make their way out to the courtyard where the horses are already waiting for them.

They ride out of Winterfell, heading towards the Wolfswood. At the edge of the trees they dismount. From here they’ll go on foot.

He hears a _splash_ and a groan followed by laughter and turns to see Sansa and Arya, having just disembarked their own horses. The laughter is Arya’s and the groan is Sansa’s, Theon concludes, as he finds her standing in a puddle of mud, lifting the hem of her skirts up around her ankles.

“Already, I’m a mess,” she gripes.

“You know, you probably could have borrowed a pair of trousers from me,” Arya says.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Kind of you to offer that _now_.”

“Well, you’ll know better for next time,” Arya shrugs.

“Are you sure there’s going to be a next time?” Theon asks, eyeing Sansa’s apparent misery at the situation and trying not to laugh.

“You know,” Sansa replies, looking up at him. “Somehow I don’t think there will be.”

They gather their bows and spears and other tools and supplies before splitting up into smaller groups of six or seven. Gawen Glover looks eager to join their party but Arya quickly looks them all over -- Theon, Sansa, Robb, Jon, Alys, and Torrhen -- and turns to him with an apologetic smile.

“It looks like we’re already full,” she says mournfully and Theon has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. He and Sansa exchange a glance and he can see the same look of bemusement on her face.

“Oh,” Gawen replies, disappointed. “But surely just _one_ more couldn’t hurt?”

“Wouldn’t be so sure,” Theon cuts in, deciding to help Arya out. “Too many people and we’ll make too much noise. Anything we’re hunting will hear us coming from leagues off.”

It’s an exaggeration, of course, and Gawen is right -- one more in their party probably wouldn’t hurt -- but something irks Theon about him anyway. Probably, Theon thinks, it has something to do with young Northern lords not wanting to hear ‘no’ from the Stark girls, no matter how polite about it they’re being.

He’s not trying to sound uncivil, but Robb must catch something in his tone all the same because he quickly glances them over, reading the situation.

“Theon’s right,” Robb agrees, cutting Gawen off just as he opens his mouth. “We can’t take any more with us. You’d do best to go with your father.”

He’d been about to argue when it was just Theon speaking, but being told off by the heir to Winterfell is something else entirely. Gawen snaps his jaw shut and glances awkwardly around the circle once more. 

“If that’s what you think is best,” he says, voice low with disappointment or embarrassment or both.

“It is,” Jon answers him, apparently having clued into what’s going on as well.

In what Theon can only assume is an attempt to save face, Gawen turns to Arya before he leaves, telling her, “I suppose I’ll see you after, then.”

Arya gives him a tight smile. “I suppose.”

And then he’s gone, shoulders slumped, stomping off through the mud towards his father. Theon and the rest find themselves stifling laughter as they watch him go.

“You know,” Arya says as she looks around at them all with a smile. “Occasionally having so many older brothers isn’t such a bad thing.”

Robb and Jon both laugh and Theon smiles as well, but he can also feel a strange sort of warmth in his belly, knowing that Arya thinks of him as a brother. Whether it be on instinct or intuition, Theon glances at Sansa to find her watching him, her expression searching but her eyes soft. He expects her to look away when their eyes meet, but she doesn’t. Instead she smiles at him, soft as her gaze, and Theon feels that warmth ignite into something much more powerful -- and much less brotherly.

Theon is broken of his trance when Robb claps him on the shoulder, not having noticed a thing -- Gods bless him -- and exclaiming, “Well, let’s get to it!”

XxXx

It’s shortly before midday and Sansa’s theory has been proven correct. Robb is a number of yards off with Alys Karstark, and Jon and Arya are way out ahead, playing the scouts. The only one she hadn’t accounted for was Torrhen, but she needn’t worry, it turns out. Apparently Torrhen is less trusting of Robb than Robb is of Theon and he’s sticking close to his sister, hovering a bit behind them as though he’s chaperoning a courtship.

“Robb finally mentioned her,” Theon says in a low voice, leaning down close to her ear. Sansa feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “Alys, I mean.”

Sansa swallows. “And what did he say?”

“Not much,” Theon admits. “Just that he thinks she likes Winterfell.”

She looks up at him with wide eyes. “As in, she might like to make it her home one day?”

Theon glances towards her brother and the Karstarks and back again. “What do you think?”

He has a point, of course. Robb and Alys are walking side-by-side chatting happily and laughing away, as though they were out for a stroll and not supposed to be hunting stag.

“I hope it works out between them,” Sansa tells him. “I do love a romance.”

“I know,” he replies, voice strange, almost thick. 

Their eyes meet again and Sansa feels that same intense rush she’d felt yesterday in the village when he’d leveled her with a similar gaze. She’s not so sure anymore that she’s imagining the look of longing buried deep behind his expression.

They continue on, traipsing through the underbrush. Sansa has to lift her skirts up almost to her knees to make it through some spots and it slows them down, but Theon waits patiently for her every time, helping to clear the way or offering her his hand.

“I still don’t see what you all find fun about this,” she says, climbing out of a particularly stubborn patch of brambles.

“The challenge, I suppose,” Theon shrugs. “And the freedom.”

“Freedom?” she scoffs. “The freedom to what? Get covered in mud and scratches?”

“Yes!” he laughs. “The freedom to roam and explore and not think about manners or propriety for a few hours.”

Sansa gives him an odd look. Manners and propriety have been her lifeblood for as long as she can remember. That’s what it means to be a Lady and she’s always been content with that. She’s having a hard time understanding Theon’s perspective on this.

“Good etiquette is the only thing that separates us from the hill tribes,” she argues. “Or the wildlings beyond the Wall.”

“Exactly,” Theon agrees, smirking at her in a way that makes her cheeks feel warm. “Haven’t you ever wanted to be a little wild?”

She’s never considered it, if she’s being honest, but suddenly in this moment, as he watches her with the sea roiling in his eyes, she’s beginning to understand the appeal. Wildlings don’t care about things like propriety or virtue and the tiniest bit of Sansa is maybe beginning to wish she didn’t have to, either.

She’s perhaps too wrapped up in her own thoughts, not paying enough attention to her surroundings, and a few steps later she loses her footing, her ankle bending awkwardly as her foot slides across the slimy surface of a rock buried in the mud. With a shout of pain she falls to the ground, catching herself on her hands and knees and coating the front of her dress in grime.

Theon curses, immediately at her side. “Are you alright?”

“I think so,” she replies, pushing herself up with his help. As she puts weight on her ankle, though, pain shoots through it and she cries out, almost losing her balance if not for Theon’s firm grip on her arm.

“Alright, hold on,” Theon murmurs, helping her limp over to a nearby log and sitting her down. He crouches in front of her, looking up into her eyes. “May I?”

She swallows and nods, pulling the hem of her skirt up just enough to reveal the injury. With gentle fingers, Theon begins inspecting her ankle, lightly squeezing and poking and prodding. It’s a sensation she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forget.

After a moment he asks, “Can you move it?”

Slowly, and with some effort, Sansa manages to rotate her ankle all the way around. Already, though, it’s beginning to hurt less.

Theon nods. “Well, I don’t think you’ve sprained it. Probably just need to rest for a few minutes.”

He pushes himself up, moving to sit next to her on the log, removing the waterskin from his belt as he does and offering it to her.

“Thank you,” she says, taking it and drinking deeply. They’ve been walking for hours and she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was getting. As she lowers the waterskin she notices Theon looking around them with a troubled expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t see any of the others,” he tells her. She hadn’t even noticed but as she scans the area she finds them alone, as well.

“Theon Greyjoy, you better not have gotten me lost,” she teases.

“Well, at least we’ll be lost together,” he replies, giving her a wink.

She feels herself flush again. “Arya will think we’ve run off together.”

“And why would she think that?” he laughs.

“She noticed we’ve been spending time together,” Sansa informs him. “And she’s jumped to all sorts of conclusions.”

“Oh?” Theon murmurs, voice low. They’re sitting close together, knees and shoulders almost touching, and Sansa can feel the heat radiating off of his body. “What conclusions might those be?”

It occurs to her suddenly -- maddeningly -- that she could kiss him right now and no one would ever know but the two of them. There are no guards keeping a watchful eye, no servants underfoot, no siblings lurking around the next corner. For perhaps the first time ever, they are completely alone. It would take nothing for her to simply lean forward and press her lips to his and she has a feeling he’d be perfectly happy to let her.

She never gets the chance, though, because just as it seems their mutual gravity is beginning to draw them in they hear the crunch of the undergrowth behind them and Theon jumps up, bow drawn. Sansa whips around, too, feeling herself inhale sharply at what she sees.

Smalljon Umber watches them from a few yards off, flanked on either side by men wearing the armor of his house, both with nocked arrows. Sansa stands carefully and Theon takes a half-step in front of her, putting himself between her and Umber, arrow still aimed at the young lord’s heart.

“Well, what’re the odds of meeting you two out here,” Umber calls to them, but Sansa can tell from the cruel way that his lips turn up that this was no coincidence.

“I thought I told you to leave,” Theon shoots back.

“Aye, you did,” Umber replies. “And I almost listened but then I thought, who are you to be giving me orders? You, the pirate scum son of a traitor?”

Sansa sees Theon’s jaw clench, sees him tighten his grip on his bow, and let out a long slow breath through his nose.

“I’m a ward of Lord Stark,” Theon answers, voice cold as ice. “Heir to the Iron Islands and the intended of the woman you accosted.”

A flash of movement at the corner of her eye has Sansa turning again, just in time to see four more Umber men emerge from the trees, two with bows drawn, two with swords at the ready.

“Theon,” she whispers, reaching out to grab his arm. He glances at her quickly, then does a double-take when he sees the men surrounding them.

Turning back to Umber, he swallows. “What is this?”

“House Umber has stood behind House Stark for a thousand years,” the Smalljon replies. Unlike his men, he doesn’t have his weapon drawn, although his hand is resting on the pommel of his sword. “If anyone has a right to marry Ned Stark’s daughter, it’s me.”

Sansa feels a shiver go down her spine at the thought and Theon’s eyes narrow. “Are you out of your mind?”

Umber laughs, loud and cruel. “Sometimes I think I’m the only one in my right mind. The eldest daughter of House Stark being sold to some Ironborn reaver with no sense of loyalty? That sounds far more mad to me.”

“Well, it’s not up to you,” Sansa finally speaks up, angry. What right does he think he has, to make such a decision for her? “And my brothers aren’t far off. Nor my father. The Wolfswood is crawling with Stark men and all I have to do to bring them all down on your head is scream.”

“Aye, you could scream,” Umber allows. “But the moment you do my men put an arrow through Greyjoy’s throat.”

Sansa’s lips press together, a wave of true fear washing over her for the first time at the threat. She’d thought, perhaps, this was all a game, that the Smalljon would have his fun tormenting them and then be on his way. She doesn’t think that anymore.

“You’re going to have to put an arrow through my throat if you think you’re leaving here with her,” Theon growls.

“If you insist,” Umber replies with a nod. “Though I had been hoping to do this without bloodshed.”

Before either of them have any chance to react Sansa hears the all-too familiar sound of an arrow being loosed and suddenly Theon is crying out, falling forward onto his knees and dropping his bow. There’s an arrow protruding from the back of his left shoulder and Sansa drops down next to him, her hands quickly getting slick with his blood as she tries to help him, no real idea of what she’s doing.

It doesn’t much matter, though, as a second later she’s being pulled away from Theon, a strong arm wrapping around her middle and a large hand covering her mouth. Despite his wound, Theon gives a shout and lunges for her, but Umber’s men are on him too fast, shoving him back down into the mud. It’s the Smalljon himself that gets the final blow, kicking Theon full in the face.

Sansa tries to scream as she watches his body go limp, sinking into the muck, but the hand over her mouth muffles it. She fights, tears in her eyes, kicking and writhing and biting, but it’s all for naught. The man at her back is too strong and soon her hands are being bound behind her, a gag shoved in her mouth, and a hood drawn over her head.


	7. Chapter 6

Theon wakes with a pounding head. It’s a worse headache than he’s ever had from a night of drinking, and as he slowly comes to consciousness he finds that it’s not just his head that aches but his entire body. There’s a pain in his shoulder like nothing he’s ever felt, it’s like he’s been stabbed or--

Or shot with an arrow.

His eyes fly open and he sits up too quickly, making himself groan. He’s in his chamber, back at Winterfell. 

No. No! Where is--

“Woah!” Robb’s voice calls and Theon turns in time to see him pushing himself off the window sill where he’d been leaning and approaching Theon’s bedside. “Careful. No need to injure yourself further.”

“Sansa?” Theon asks, desperate, not at all concerned about injuring himself.

Robb shakes his head. “Men are searching the Wolfswood but there’s been no sign. What do you remember?”

“Umber,” Theon tells him. “It was Umber.”

“Umber?” Robb repeats, brows knitting in. “Lord Umber?”

Theon shakes his head. “His son.”

“The Smalljon?” Robb asks. “We thought it was bandits, or maybe wildlings that had wandered too far south. Why would the Smalljon take Sansa?”

“He’s taking her to the Last Hearth,” Theon explains. “To force her to marry him.”

Robb stares at Theon in shock for the briefest of moments before jumping to his feet and running for the door. Yanking it open, he leans out and calls down the corridor, presumably to a guard or servant somewhere nearby.

“Get my father! Now!”

And then he’s back at Theon’s side as he struggles to get out of bed. “How long have I been out?”

“Around twelve hours,” Robb tells him.

Theon groans again. “Twelve hours? Please tell me you have men searching the Kingsroad.”

“Aye, we have men searching the Kingsroad,” Robb replies, face grave. “ _South_ along the Kingsroad. We didn’t think there was anyone that would take her north but wildlings, and wildlings don’t use roads.”

Theon pushes himself to his feet, swaying. Robb steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t be up,” he says, giving Theon a serious look.

“We have to go after them,” Theon argues.

“We do,” Robb replies. “But not you. Not in your state.”

“I’m fine,” Theon insists. It’s a lie, of course. Riding is going to be a nightmare and he can’t draw a bowstring without the use of his shoulder, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to lie in bed while Sansa’s out there with Umber.

“Theon, they put an arrow in you,” Robb reasons. “And left you to die in the mud.”

“Exactly,” Theon shoots back, latching onto this as an explanation. Anger and revenge, those are things he can make Robb understand, but this gaping pit of dread in the bottom of his stomach, the way his heart is beating in his ears, the way he can’t stop seeing the look in Sansa’s eyes as they’d dragged her away from him -- he’ll never be able to explain that to Robb. “I’m not staying here while you hunt these bastards down without me.”

Robb looks like he’s about to speak when the door to Theon’s chamber bursts open and Lord Stark enters. Both boys freeze, falling silent.

“Theon,” Ned begins, looking him over from head to toe. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Theon replies. 

“Theon says it was the Smalljon that took Sansa,” Robb tells him, no time to waste.

Ned’s brow furrows and he looks back and forth between them in confusion. “The Umber boy? Why?”

“To marry her,” Theon explains again. “Said she belongs with a Northman and not--” he pauses, awkward and angry “--not the son of an Ironborn traitor.”

Ned lets out a long, slow breath, but Theon can see the carefully controlled rage seething beneath the surface. Ned Stark doesn’t get mad often and in all the years he’s lived in Winterfell, Theon doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him like this.

Robb shakes his head. “We should’ve known something wasn’t right when he just up and left the way he did. Should’ve found out what was going on.”

“I can explain that, too,” Theon sighs, voice quiet. They both turn to him and he goes on. “The first night of the festival I saw him leave the hall with Sansa. I had a… bad feeling about it, so I went after them. He followed her upstairs and tried to force himself on her outside her chamber door. If I hadn’t been two steps behind them…”

He sees something tick in Ned’s jaw before he asks, in a voice Theon can tell he’s fighting to keep even, “Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”

Theon looks away, ashamed. “She asked me not to. But she promised to tell you herself, once the festival was over. She didn’t want to ruin everyone’s fun.”

Robb hasn’t said a word and Theon can’t bring himself to look at him. He should’ve told Ned and Robb both, the same night it happened. He should’ve seen Sansa safely to her room and then gone straight to her father. If they’d known, she’d be safe now and it’s his fault that she’s not.

“How many men does Umber have?” Ned asks after a moment, apparently having heard enough.

“A half dozen that I saw,” Theon answers, eyes still on the floor. “And Umber himself.”

“We need to go after them, Father,” Robb demands, finally speaking up. “They’ll be headed up the Kingsroad.”

“Aye,” Ned nods. “Find Jory. Tell him to choose five good men and have our fastest horses saddled. I’m sending you and Jon with him as well.”

Robb moves for the door but Theon speaks up. “I’m going, too.”

“That’s not a good idea, lad,” Ned advises. “You’re already hurt.”

“I don’t care,” Theon shakes his head. “I’m going.”

Ned eyes him for a moment and Theon holds his gaze before he turns to Robb and gives a nod. “Go now. Find Jory.”

“Aye, Father,” Robb replies and disappears out the door.

Ned turns back to Theon. “You’d best get yourself dressed then. And quickly.”

Theon nods silently, but when Ned moves to follow his son out of the room he suddenly calls out, “Lord Stark.”

Ned turns back to him, eyes questioning.

“I just,” he stammers, feeling like he’s eight years old all over again under Ned’s gaze. “I tried. Out there. I tried to protect her.”

Ned takes a step towards him, putting a fatherly hand on his good shoulder. “I know, lad,” he assures him. “I know.”

And then he’s gone, out the door and down the corridor, and Theon is left alone with his guilt.

XxXx

Sansa is never going on another hunt again. She should’ve known it would end this way, with her sitting in the mud, tied to a tent pole. They’d finally stopped riding for the night and Sansa had been transferred from the back of a horse to the small tent she’s now occupying. They hadn’t taken the hood off of her until she was inside so she has no idea where they are, not that it would have made much difference if she could see. 

It’s nighttime, though, she can tell that much. She can hear the sound of a fire crackling nearby and the chatter of Umber’s men, can smell the cooking of meat as they make themselves dinner.

She’s still gagged, annoyingly, her back to the post, arms wrapped around it and wrists tied together. She moves her hands around as much as she can, trying to wriggle free or reach the knots, but it’s fruitless. 

She stills as the door to the tent is swept aside and Jon Umber strides in. She glares up at him, strands of hair that have come loose from her braid falling in her face. 

“Is that any way to greet the man who’s brought you dinner?” he asks, holding up a plate and smiling at her like they’re friends. She can’t reply, so she continues to glare.

He walks over, crouching down and placing the plate in her lap. She leans away from him as best she can, but she doesn’t have much slack to work with. She doesn’t take her eyes off him, though she can feel her heart pounding.

“Now, if I take that gag out of your mouth do you promise to behave?” he says. “There’s nobody around to hear you scream but I’d rather you didn’t all the same.”

She watches him carefully before giving a short nod. He reaches up, pulling the gag from her mouth, her skin crawling where his fingers touch her, and letting it fall around her neck.

“Where’s Theon?” she demands immediately. She’s been able to think of little else since she saw him collapse into the mud, but there’d been no mention of him from any of Umber’s men on the long ride north, at least none that she’d been able to hear.

Umber laughs. “Do you honestly care about that pirate?”

“Where is he?” she repeats through gritted teeth, angry and scared and desperate.

“Right where we left him, I expect,” Umber replies, that disgustingly friendly smile still on his face. “Probably dead by now.”

For a moment, it’s as though Sansa’s forgotten how to breathe. 

Dead. Theon, dead.

He can’t be. He just can’t, not now, not when they’ve only just begun to mean something to one another. They were supposed to be married, supposed to go to the Iron Islands, supposed to live a life together. And she hadn’t realized it until this moment but she wants that life -- Gods, she _wants_ that life -- but now it’s gone, before it even had a chance to begin.

They won’t have a spring wedding in the Godswood. He’ll never teach her to swim or show her the way Lordsport sparkles in the winter. She’ll never have children with fire in their hair and the sea in their eyes.

Tears are spilling down her cheeks and she hears Umber scoff, “Don’t tell me you actually cared for him.”

She levels him with what must be the fiercest glare she’s ever summoned, rage and grief warring in her chest. “My father will have your head for this,” she tells him, voice low. “If my brothers don’t get to you first.”

Robb will murder Umber if he gets his hands on him, she has no doubt. And Jon will gladly help him, for her sake if not for Theon’s (though she has a feeling some amount of it will be for Theon).

“Not when we’re family by law,” Umber smirks. “Your father wouldn’t take the head of his own son and your brothers’ll draw the line at kinslaying, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t be,” she warns. “Theon was family to them. You’ll never be.”

“I will be in the eyes of the Gods,” Umber argues. “That’s all that matters. And even if it wasn’t, they won’t have much choice when our marriage is the only thing protecting your virtue. No other man will have you after this, so they may as well accept the match.”

A shiver goes down Sansa’s spine as he leans in close to her and she can’t help but remember the other night when he’d trapped her against the wall. Again, she pulls at her binds, trying to get as far from him as possible to no avail.

He chuckles and she can feel his breath on her cheek before he sits back on his heels again. “Don’t worry, Lady Sansa,” he says, that friendly smile back on his face. “There’s no rush. We can wait until the wedding night if it’s that important to you. I always heard you were a proper lady.”

He brushes the strands of hair from her face and she jerks her head away. “Don’t touch me.” She means it to come out as a growl, low and angry, but she’s sure he can hear the quiver in her voice.

“You know, if we were wildlings we’d be married already,” he tells her, ignoring her discomfort, or worse, enjoying it. “All a man has to do to make a woman his wife beyond the Wall is carry her off. Then she’s his.”

“Well, we’re not beyond the Wall,” she spits. “And I’m not yours. I never will be.”

“You will, Lady Stark,” he promises. “You’ll be Lady Umber before long.”

“I won’t,” she insists. “You can’t make me.”

“We’ll see about that,” he replies, and reaches for the plate still sitting in her lap. “Now, come, you should eat something.”

Before he can get a hand on it, though, she kicks her legs up, ankles tied together, and sends the plate and its contents scattering into the dirt.

“I’ll starve before I marry you,” she promises.

He chuckles. “I wouldn’t be so sure, My Lady, but have it your way for tonight,” he says, shoving the gag back into her mouth. He gets to his feet and makes for the tent door, stopping briefly to turn back and look at her. “I’ve broken mares more stubborn than you.”

As soon as he’s gone she struggles against her bonds again, futile though she knows it is, and lets out a sob. She wants to curl up and cry. She wants to go home. She wants Theon.

But Theon is gone. He’s dead because of her -- _for her_ \-- and if she doesn’t get out of here it will have been for nothing. 

She needs to keep her wits about her, needs to be smart. Winterfell will be searching for her, she knows they will, she just needs to bide her time until she’s found. She needs to find a way to slow Umber down or leave a trail for their pursuers. They must have been travelling for at least twelve hours by now, but it’s three days from Winterfell to the Last Hearth so she knows there’s still a chance.

Umber had compared her to a mare, but he’d forgotten she’s a wolf and wolves are fierce, cunning.

And, more importantly, wolves have packs.

XxXx

They leave Winterfell in all haste, nine riders heading north along the Kingsroad. Theon still aches all over and he can barely use his left arm, but he keeps up with Robb and the others all the same.

Umber has a twelve hour head start on them but, with any luck, they can make up some time by riding through the night. They’ll be able to ride faster than Umber’s men, too, not having a hostage to keep secure. Provided Sansa’s captors stop to rest for the night, they should be able to catch up to them before they reach the Last Hearth.

There isn’t much opportunity for talk as they ride and it’s shortly after dawn before they need to stop, finding a small creek to water the horses and give them a rest. There’s a grouping of rocks next to the water, large enough to sit on, and Theon, Robb, and Jon make use of them, Theon gritting his teeth as he lowers himself down.

“You really shouldn’t have come,” Robb tells him. “Maester Luwin said you shouldn’t even be out of bed.”

“I’m fine,” Theon insists, removing the waterskin from his belt with his right hand and pulling the cap off with his teeth before drinking. Pain is still radiating from the wound in his shoulder and he’s doing his level best to ignore it.

“Why are you here, Theon?” Jon asks, voice low but honest, not like he’s trying to tell Theon off for coming, but like he genuinely wants to know. When Theon meets his gaze it’s to find Jon watching him with thoughtful eyes, as if he’s searching for something. “You don’t have to be.”

“I _do_ have to be,” Theon replies, immediate, no hesitation. When he sees Jon’s eyebrows knit in he shakes his head and looks away, down toward the dirt at his feet. “I should’ve told you about what Umber did the other night.” 

“Aye, probably,” Robb agrees, though he doesn’t sound angry and Theon looks up at him, surprised. Robb sighs. “But we can hardly fault you for being loyal to Sansa, can we? Especially given the… circumstances you were under at the time.”

Theon thinks perhaps this is the first time he’s ever heard Robb makes reference to his betrothal to his sister, but something about it gives Theon pause. “What do you mean ‘at the time’?”

Robb’s eyes go a little wide, like he’s only just realizing what he said, and he exchanges a look with Jon. “It’s just something my father said,” Robb explains, awkward. “While you were getting dressed.”

Theon looks back and forth between the brothers, Robb looking like he’d rather be talking about anything else and Jon still watching him closely. “What did your father say?” he demands when Robb doesn’t go on.

Robb sighs. “Just that, well, there’s a chance your _betrothal_ will be off after this.”

Theon feels like his heart is beating in his throat, but still he manages to scrape out a, “Why?”

“I know none of us want to think about it,” Robb says slowly, unwillingly. “But we don’t know what Umber has done to her--”

“I don’t care what he’s done to her!” Theon cuts him off without thinking. Robb looks taken aback at this exclamation, stunned even. Jon looks like he’s having a realization and godsdammit if that isn’t worse. 

Before either of them has a chance to speak, Theon pushes himself up and stalks away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He doesn’t go far, just to the other side of the small stone bridge that spans the creek, out of sight of Robb and Jon.

He sits in the grass, shadowed by the bridge, and watches the water bubble over the rocks as it flows past. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his frayed nerves, but it doesn’t work. He wants to scream or hit something or sob. 

Everything that’s happened -- Theon getting shot, Sansa getting kidnapped -- and now they want to add insult to injury and call off the betrothal as well? All Theon can think about is finding Sansa, getting her back where he can see her and touch her and know that she’s alright and never have to let her go again. 

It’s bad enough that Umber could just end up killing her -- could have killed her already, he does his best not to think -- but he can’t lose her like this, not to some stupid custom or technicality. He meant it when he said he doesn’t care what Umber’s done to her. As long as she’ll have him, he still has every intention of marrying Sansa Stark. He _wants_ to marry Sansa Stark.

Because he loves Sansa Stark.

It’s the first time he’s ever had that thought, but it doesn’t even come as a surprise. Of course he loves her. She’s clever and kind and beautiful. She matches his wit but doesn’t put up with his foolishness. She listens intently as he talks about things he hasn’t spoken of to anyone since he came to Winterfell all those years ago.

And what does it even mean if the betrothal is off? Regardless of his relationship with Sansa, their engagement is still a political one, arranged by the king and agreed upon by their fathers. The point of it is to permanently bond their two houses.

So, if he can’t marry Sansa, then what? He has to marry Arya instead? Impossible. His older sister has to marry Robb? Equally as dismal for all involved.

No, one way or another Theon Greyjoy will marry Sansa Stark, the high lords of Westeros and their political machinations be damned.

It’s at this moment that Theon hears footsteps approaching him from behind and turns to see Jory standing over him. “You alright?” he asks.

Theon shakes his head. “No, not particularly.”

“You’re not talking about your wound, are you?” Jory sighs, moving to crouch next to him and meet his eye.

“Robb says this could be the end of the betrothal,” Theon replies. He doesn’t have the energy to be coy or vague about it anymore, especially not after the conversation he had with Jory in the training yard. “As though Umber is going to ruin her somehow. As though he ever could.”

“There’s no point worrying about that now,” Jory tells him. “We have to find Lady Sansa and get her home safe. That’s what’s important. Everything else is a conversation for later.”

Jory’s right, of course. Theon knows he’s right. Rescuing Sansa is what matters now. He’ll gladly trade their betrothal for her safety if that’s what it takes.

“Come on,” Jory says, pushing himself to his feet and holding out a hand to help Theon up as well. “We need to get back on the road.”

Once he’s on his feet, Theon glances towards Robb and Jon again. They’ve got their heads bent, Jon talking and Robb listening intently. He can only imagine what they’re saying and heads for his horse instead of finding out. Jory calls out to them as Theon begins untying his horse from the tree where he’d secured him and they rise, coming over for their own.

The men begin mounting their horses and Theon puts his foot in the stirrup, gripping the saddle with his good hand and preparing to hoist himself up. Robb, a few feet off, must notice his struggle because he leaves his own horse for a moment and comes over.

“Here,” he says, lacing his fingers together, palm up, and resting them against his knee. “I’ll give you a boost up.”

Theon thinks about arguing -- he hasn’t needed help mounting a horse since he was ten -- but he knows it’s pointless. “Thank you,” Theon murmurs, putting his foot in Robb’s hands and letting him help him up.

Robb nods, looking up at him. For brothers, there isn’t much resemblance between Robb and Jon -- Jon is all Stark, while Robb takes after his mother -- but the look he’s giving Theon now is still almost identical to the one Jon had been giving him earlier -- searching, questioning, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. He doesn’t say anything, though, just gives Theon’s horse a pat before turning and heading back to his own.

And then they’re off again, riding too fast for conversation, and Theon has to devote too much of his focus on staying upright to be able to dwell on anything else.


	8. Chapter 7

It’s at least a couple of hours after dawn before they get moving again. It takes time to pack up a camp and Umber and his men had wanted breakfast first. She’d known he was arrogant, of course, but now she’s beginning to think that arrogance is what’s going to do him in in the end.

He doesn’t think they can be caught. He’s sure they’ve got enough of a lead or that no one knows where they’re headed or maybe he just thinks no one is after them at all. Either way, he’s wrong. 

There are people looking for them right now, Sansa’s sure of it, and the more time he spends eating bacon, the closer they get.

She hadn’t slept much, though she couldn’t help dozing a bit, and her whole body aches from being tied upright with her hands behind her back all night. Still, though, before anyone has a chance to come check on her she cranes her neck back as far as she can, reaching up with her fingertips. It’s a painful endeavor, but she _just_ manages to reach the green velvet ribbon tying the bottom of her braid. Slowly she pulls the ribbon off, her braid loosens a bit but her hair is thick enough that it stays mostly in place.

She flattens the ribbon between her fingers, adjusting it carefully until she’s holding it as best she can in her bound hands. Then she begins tying knots, over and over until there isn’t room left for anymore, before dropping it into the grass at her back.

Perhaps it’s an odd message but it’s the best she can send without parchment and quill. 

A moment later, the tent door is pulled aside and Umber strides in, stopping before her and smiling down at her.

“I would offer you breakfast, but I assume you’re still intent on starving,” he says. She’s still gagged but she’s sure her glare says enough. “So I thought.”

He stoops, removing the ropes from around her ankles before making his way behind her, crouching down and beginning to untie the bindings at her wrists. For a moment she’s worried he’ll notice her ribbon in the grass at his feet but, as she predicted, his arrogance will be his downfall and instead of paying attention to his surroundings he’d rather take the opportunity to lean over her shoulder.

“Sleep well, My Lady?” he asks, mockingly polite. She turns her head, leaning away from him. “Don’t worry, you’ll have a feather bed again soon enough. And you’re in luck. Everyone knows mine is the most comfortable one in the castle.”

Unable to respond, she huffs in disgust, trying to ignore the feeling of his moist breath on her neck.

He chuckles, finishing with the knots, and hoisting her to her feet before tying her wrists together again, this time in front of her. He marches her out of the tent and to a log near the firepit that they must have been using as a bench. 

Sitting her down on it, Umber points a finger in her face and orders, “Now, you be good for a few minutes while we get things packed up. We’ll be back on the road soon.”

Apparently he’s decided to do away with the hood, or maybe he’s just forgotten it, and Sansa takes the opportunity to look around. Just as she thought, she doesn’t recognize their surroundings at all. She’s never left Winterfell before, except to go into the village or go riding about the moors surrounding the castle. Wherever they are now is the farthest she’s ever been from home.

She briefly considers trying to make a run for it while Umber and his men are distracted and no one is paying any particular attention to her. She wouldn’t get far, though, not with her hands tied. And even if she did manage to slip away somehow and not be caught, she’d be dead before dawn tomorrow. It may be spring, but this is still the North and the nights are cold. She’ll freeze to death if bandits or beasts don’t find her first.

Besides, if someone is looking for her it’s best if she stay exactly where they expect to find her and, unfortunately, for now that means staying on the Kingsroad with Jon Umber.

Eventually, they finish their packing and Umber comes back for her. “Right this way, My Lady,” he says, pulling her up and leading her toward the horses.

She’d been thrown over the back of one of them yesterday, though with the hood covering her face she has no idea which, but today he brings her to the one that is clearly his own. She steps back, giving him a look of disgust when she realizes he means for her to ride with him.

“Come now, Lady Sansa, it won’t be so bad,” he insists, laughing. “We can take the ride to get to know one another before the wedding.”

She tries to glare at him but feels tears spring to her eyes as his words remind her of Theon and their agreement to speak every day. It seems so long ago now but it was really only a week. A stroll through the Godswood, a trip to the village market, a night laughing with friends -- is that really all it had taken for her to love him? Or was she just realizing what had been in front of her for her entire life?

But none of that matters now, does it? Because Theon is gone. If and when she does get away from Umber, Theon will still be gone.

“Now, what’s the matter?” Umber asks, noticing her tears. “It won’t be as bad as all that. We’ll have a grand time, you and I, you’ll see.”

With that, he hoists Sansa up into the saddle before climbing up and settling in in front of her. With her hands still bound there’s nothing to hold onto but the back of his cloak so instead she grips the horse’s sides with her legs and does her best to keep her balance as they set off once more.

XxXx

It’s with the midday sun bright above them as they round a bend in the road that Jory suddenly pulls up, waving for the rest of them to stop as well. Robb swings his horse around, heading towards him and Theon and Jon follow suit.

“What is it?” Robb calls out as they approach.

“There, m’Lord,” Jory replies, pointing off the side of the road. Theon follows his gaze, immediately understanding when his eyes light upon an area of trampled grass and the remains of a makeshift firepit. Someone camped here recently. “Looks like they stopped for the night.”

“That’s good,” Robb nods. “We’ll have gained some time on them.”

Theon glances around them, eyes scanning from horizon to horizon. Sansa was here just a few hours ago but there’s no trace of her now. He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting but he’s disappointed all the same. 

“We should stop for a few minutes,” Robb goes on. “Give the lads a chance to have a piss at least.”

“Aye, m’Lord,” Jory nods and rides off to tell the men.

“How long do you think?” Robb asks, voice low as he scans the area.

“Six hours. Maybe less,” Jon guesses. “Probably left around daybreak.”

Robb turns to Theon who nods his agreement. “Six hours,” he breathes. “That’s not too far off.”

“It’s further than that to the Last Hearth,” Theon says. “That’s all that matters.”

They all know that finding Sansa before they make it to the seat of House Umber is vital. Once the Smalljon has her secure behind his walls they won’t be able to get her back. Nine men don’t make for a siege and by the time reinforcements arrive it’ll surely be too late.

“Right,” Robb nods and Theon can see the worry in his eyes as he looks around them -- worry that he’s going to fail his sister, his father, his house. But then he swallows and takes a deep breath and that look of self-doubt vanishes. It’s a talent Robb has that Theon’s always envied, the ability to push his fears aside and focus on the task at hand. “Come on. We should give the horses a rest.”

They dismount and Theon decides to take Robb up on his suggestion of using the opportunity to relieve himself and heads for the treeline, about two dozen yards off. On his way back toward the road he stumbles on a root and falls forward, catching himself against a nearby tree just in time -- catching himself with his _left_ arm.

He lets out a curse and leans against the bark, gritting his teeth. Though it’s no less than he deserves, he supposes. What’s a little pain compared to all the horrible things he’s imagined Sansa suffering since he woke up in his bed at Winterfell?

“You alright?” he hears a voice call and looks up to see Robb coming through the trees towards him.

“Tripped,” Theon replies. “Caught myself on my bad arm.”

Robb sighs, coming to a stop next to the tree Theon is still using for support. “I don’t suppose there’s anymore point in me telling you you shouldn’t’ve come?”

“None,” Theon agrees.

Robb shakes his head. “Why is it that I’m always the last to know everything?”

Theon looks at him in confusion. “What?”

“Jon tells me that Arya tells him that Sansa and Theon are in love,” Robb explains. “Tell me, do Bran and Rickon already know, too?”

“Robb, I--” Theon stammers, not knowing what to say.

“You could’ve told me,” Robb says, the humour that had crept into his eyes replaced with an earnestness that melts the last of Theon’s resolve.

“You’ve never been comfortable with the betrothal,” he explains, voice low, not quite meeting Robb’s eye.

“With my little sister and best friend being forced to marry each other against their will?” Robb replies. “No, I can’t say that I have. But that’s not what this is, Theon. Not if you love each other.”

“I don’t know what this is,” Theon tells him, looking up. “Not yet. It’s still… new.”

“Oh,” Robb says, surprised by this. “Do you, though? Love her?”

“I haven’t said as much to her,” Theon replies. It’s not a no but it’s all he’ll say. Something doesn’t feel right about telling Sansa’s brother before he’s told Sansa herself. 

Robb seems to understand anyway, nodding his head. “Well, we’ll have to find her then.”

They make their way back out towards the vacated campsite to find Jon and Jory examining what’s been left behind.

“I’d say four tents,” Jory tells them as they approach. “Theon’s probably right. About a half dozen men.”

Theon walks from one depression in the grass to the next, easily making out where men had lay sleeping the night before. One of them is different, though. The patch of crushed grass is smaller here and next to it, Theon finds a small hole in the ground, almost perfectly round. That’ll be where the tent pole was shoved into the dirt, he knows, and whoever had lay here was right up against it. _Tied to it_ , he realizes and feels his jaw clench. This is where Sansa had sat, lashed to a tent pole all night long.

He’s about to push himself to his feet when something on the ground catches his eye. He almost doesn’t see it, a small piece of green velvet tucked into the grass, but it’s as though his gaze is drawn to it. Immediately, he snatches it up, recognizing it instantly as the ribbon that had held Sansa’s braid in place while out on the hunt. 

“Robb!” he calls, getting up and waving his friend over. Jon and Jory follow.

“What is it?” Robb asks.

“Sansa’s,” Theon says, holding the ribbon up for them to see. There are knots tied all through it and they stare at it oddly.

“Are you sure?” Robb demands.

“Yes,” Theon assures him.

“Why is it tied like that?” Jon asks.

Theon shrugs. “I can’t imagine it’s not deliberate. Maybe she dropped it on purpose.”

Jory smiles, a hint of pride in his voice as he declares, “The young Lady is leaving us a trail.”

“Then she’s alive,” Robb concludes, nodding his head as if saying it will make it true. “And she still has her wits. That’s the best we can hope for right now.”

She was alive and had her wits six hours ago, Theon can’t help but think. A lot can change in six hours. But Sansa is smart, smart enough to let them know they’re on the right trail. She’ll be smart enough to survive a few more hours with Umber, as well, he knows she will.

As they make their way back to the horses, Theon carefully undoes the knots in the ribbon, before fastening it around his wrist and tucking it under his sleeve, keeping it safe until he can give it back to Sansa.

XxXx

With Sansa seated behind Umber instead of awkwardly slung over the back of a horse, they’re able to move faster today than they did yesterday. This makes Sansa nervous and she finds herself desperately trying to come up with a way to slow them down. Her hair has come completely undone as they gallop along and she uses it as a curtain to hide her face as she glances around her, not wanting one of Umber’s men to notice.

There isn’t much to see -- forest to their left, open fields to their right. Umber’s saddle bags are secured just behind her and if she raises her right foot just enough she might be able to pull the straps loose. 

But what good would that do? The saddle bag would fall, they’d stop for the half a minute it takes to pick it up, and then they’d be off again. It’s not enough and she doubts she’ll be able to get away with it more than once.

So she waits, keeping an eye out for an opportunity. Finally, what must be more than an hour later, one presents itself.

The Kingsroad begins to bend and slope upwards. They climb higher and higher but off to the right, just a few feet from the edge of the road, the ground suddenly drops off, a steep grassy hill leading down to farmland at the bottom.

She waits until they’ve made it almost to the top before slowly lifting her foot up behind her, threading it through the strap on Umber’s saddle bag, and carefully pulling it loose, doing her best to give it some momentum towards the edge of the escarpment.

She watches with baited breath as it falls, skidding towards the drop-off, before tumbling over the side and disappearing from sight. Umber doesn’t notice at first, not until one of his men calls out to him and he reins up, bringing the horse back around.

“What?” he shouts back.

“Your saddlebag, m’Lord,” the man replies, pointing to the escarpment. “You’ve lost it.”

Umber twists around, looking first at the spot where his bag had been secured and then at Sansa. She does her best to look innocent but to no avail, apparently. “What did you do?”

Still gagged, Sansa just shrugs at him. 

Turning back to his men he orders, “Well, what are you waiting for? Someone go get it!”

Immediately two men scramble off their horses, handing the reins over to their fellows, and sliding on their hands and knees down the side of the hill. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re achieving with this,” Umber tells her. “You think you’ll be able to slow us down enough for anyone to catch up, is that it?” When she doesn’t answer he reaches up, annoyed, and pulls the gag from her mouth. “Well?”

She stretches her jaw before bluntly replying, “I think you’re an idiot.”

“You know, good Ladies do as they’re told,” he growls. “When you’re my wife I’ll make sure you understand that.”

“Good Ladies don’t give the time of day to arrogant young Lords who would besmirch their honour,” she shoots back. “And good Lords don’t threaten women or steal them from their homes. Your father should have made you understand that, but don’t worry, I’m sure mine will in his stead.”

He grits his teeth but instead of responding to Sansa he turns to one of his men. “You!” he calls, pointing off towards the edge of the hill. “Go see what’s taking them so long.”

“Yes, m’Lord,” the man replies, jumping down and following the others over the side.

It’s taking longer than Umber would like and Sansa can see him growing more frustrated by the minute. As it turns out, the bag had come open as it had fallen and a number of Umber’s possessions are scattered across the hillside. It takes the three men nearly half an hour to collect everything up again and make it back to the top of the road. Umber has the saddlebags removed from his horse and fixed to his men’s to keep Sansa from playing the same trick twice.

Before they set off again, Umber scans the horizon from east to west. “We need to get moving,” he calls to his men. “The sun’s going to be setting soon. We’ll need to find somewhere to make camp.”

They continue on until the sun goes down and then press on a little further still, riding for probably another hour after night has set in. It’s not until one of Umber’s men pulls up beside them and points out that the darker it gets the harder it will be to pitch tents that they stop. He’d kept them riding longer than he should have, she knows. He’s starting to get nervous.

They’ve been riding through dense forest but they find a clearing not too far from the road just big enough for them to spend the night. Sansa is sat in the grass as the men go about erecting tents around her. One of them kneels a few feet away, building a firepit and sparking at a flint rock. Finally, Umber comes back over, pulling her to her feet and bringing her inside one of the tents where she is once again lashed to the centre pole. 

“Didn’t even realize I hadn’t put that gag back in your mouth,” he says once he’s done, looking her over. “Don’t have anything to say?”

“Not to you,” she replies coldly. The truth is that she _had_ noticed he’d forgotten about it and hadn’t felt the need to draw his attention to it, preferring is out of her mouth than in.

He shakes his head. “And will you be taking supper tonight, m’Lday?” he asks, putting on a fake serving girl accent.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she spits. 

She is hungry, of course. She hasn’t eaten since the breakfast before the hunt but she has no intention of giving him the satisfaction. She’ll eat when she’s safe and not a moment before.

“Very well,” he sighs and leaves her alone.

Another night in camp. Another opportunity for her rescuers to catch up. They’ve been riding for a day and a half now, meaning they are about halfway to the Last Hearth. That’s still lots of time for her to be found, especially if she can find another way to slow their progress.

She does her best to keep her eyes open, trying to formulate some sort of plan, but eventually exhaustion takes over and her head falls forward, chin against her chest, asleep.


	9. Chapter 8

It’s the wee hours of the morning when they find Umber’s camp. They see it from a ways off, four tents of white fabric with a small fire crackling merrily between them. They rein up, dismounting and tying the horses off just inside the treeline, out of site of the camp.

Quietly the men gather together and Theon watches as Robb looks them over. “We need to take them by surprise,” he begins. “I don’t want to give them a chance to hold a knife to my sister’s throat and use her as a hostage. They can’t know we’re there until we’re on them.”

“Right,” Jory nods. “What’s the plan?”

“There are two men keeping watch by the fire,” Robb says. “I want archers to take them out first, before they can raise the alarm. Jory, take two men and flank around the camp to enter from the other side. There are four tents, one of them has my sister in it. Her safety is paramount.”

They all nod before turning towards the task at hand, Jory and two of the others heading deeper into the trees to make their way around behind the camp. Jon leads the other three off to get into position as well. As he makes to follow, Robb reaches out and grabs Theon’s arm, stopping him.

“What?” Theon asks, voice low, anxious to get on with things. For the first time he notices how tired Robb looks. Theon is tired, too, but at least he had the benefit of being unconscious for twelve hours before they set out. He doesn’t think Robb’s had any sleep since before this whole ordeal began. 

“Listen, I know you don’t want to hear it,” Robb tells him. “But you can’t fight.”

“I can’t draw a bow--” Theon starts but Robb cuts him off.

“You can’t swing a sword either,” he insists. “Not in your state, you’ll never last.”

“If you think I’m going to stay with the horses--” again, Robb cuts him off.

“I need you to find Sansa,” he orders. “The rest of us will deal with Umber and his men. You find Sansa and keep her safe.”

Theon swallows. Sansa’s safety is the most important thing, Robb just said so himself, and he’s trusting it to Theon. 

“Right,” Theon nods. “I’ll find her.”

With that, they begin, creeping silently through the trees, swords drawn, towards the glow of the campfire. As they approach, Theon inspects each of the tents in turn, trying to decide which one is most likely to contain Sansa. 

They stop just inside the tree line, where the inky black shadows keep them hidden and Robb turns to two of their men, giving them a nod. Quietly, each raises a bow, nocking an arrow and taking aim.

Robb watches them closely, raising his arm and then quickly bringing it down again. Both arrows are loosed, one finding purchase in the side of a neck, killing Umber’s guard instantly, but the other goes wide, disappearing into the darkness on the other side of the camp. 

The lucky man who was missed immediately jumps to his feet. “We’re under attack!” he shouts, drawing his sword and turning in the direction the arrows had come from.

Robb curses under his breath as they begin to hear the sound of men rousing, tent flaps already being pulled back. “On me, lads!” he calls, and plunges forward, sword at the ready.

Jon and the three guards go after him and Theon can see Jory and his men charging in from the other direction. Theon quickly makes for the camp, too, but instead of heading for the fray that’s broken out around the firepit he sprints towards the back of the nearest tent. He’d paid enough attention to which tents men had come spilling out of to know just where Sansa should be and pulling a dagger from his boot he slices up the back of the fabric. 

And there she is, tied to the tent pole in the middle, her back to him, long red hair loose without her ribbon.

“Sansa,” he breathes, rushing forward and dropping to his knees at her back, taking his dagger to the knots at her wrists.

“What?” she demands, doing her best to peer over her shoulder as the sound of fighting rages outside. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” he tells her, trying to sound soothing.

He hears her gasp. “Theon?”

“Yes,” he replies. “You’re going to be fine.”

He finally manages to get through all the knots but before he has a chance to do or say anything else, Sansa has flung herself around the pole and thrown her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

He wraps his good arm around her, holding her close and breathing deeply. She’s alive, she’s whole, she’s in his arms. For a moment, nothing else in the world matters but this.

Then she’s pulling back from him, though, hands coming up to cradle his face and he can see that she has tears in her eyes. “It’s alright,” he murmurs to her, reaching up to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. “You’re safe now.”

“Me?!” she almost laughs, shaking her head as more tears begin to spill. “He told me he killed you. I thought you were dead.”

“Gods, Sansa,” he breathes, pulling her back against him. She goes easily, burying her face in the crook of his neck and wrapping her arms around him once more. “I’m fine, I promise.”

He feels her shake her head. “They put an arrow in you, I saw it.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “I’m here and I’m fine.”

He feels her nod, feels her tears on his collar and holds her tighter. Finally, he pulls back from her, just enough to get a good look at her. “What about you? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she tells him. “He barely touched me.”

Something in Theon seethes at the word ‘barely’, but she doesn’t look hurt. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she nods. “I promise.”

Neither of them have been paying any attention to what’s been going on outside the tent but Theon suddenly realizes the sounds of fighting have stopped. He hears footsteps approaching and has just enough time to push Sansa behind him, dagger at the ready, before the tent flap is swept aside and Robb comes striding in, bleeding from a cut on his cheek but none the worse for wear.

“Robb!” Sansa exclaims, on her feet in an instant and rushing to her brother who quickly drops his sword and catches her in both arms.

Theon climbs to his feet as they hold each other before Robb pulls back and looks her over. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she assures him. “I’m fine.”

The wave of relief that washes over Robb at those words is visible, his shoulders relaxing and expression softening before he hugs his sister again.

“Umber?” Theon asks.

“Taken care of,” Robb replies. “Jon knocked him out. We’ll take him back to Winterfell and let my father decide what to do with him.”

“What now?” Sansa asks, looking back and forth between them, Robb’s arm still around her shoulders. 

“We secure Umber for the night,” Robb tells her. “And then we get some sleep. It’s a long ride back to Winterfell and I don’t think any of us have had much rest in the past two days.”

“Do you have anything to eat?” she asks next. “I haven’t eaten anything.”

“They didn’t feed you?” Theon demands, anger flaring once again. 

“He tried,” Sansa shrugs. “But my hands were tied behind my back. What was I going to do, eat out of his palm?”

Theon can’t help but laugh at that, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had arisen. It’s just so _Sansa_ he can’t help but be relieved by it. She smiles at him and they hold each other’s gaze, perhaps a moment too long.

Robb clears his throat and they both turn to him, Theon a little sheepishly. “We should go get something to eat,” he says, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his lips. And with that he turns, leading Sansa and Theon out of the tent and back towards the fire.

XxXx

The first time Sansa is awakened it’s because she’s fallen asleep by the fire, leaning against Robb’s shoulder. Her brother gently shakes her and helps her to her feet and puts her to bed in one of the tents.

The next time it’s a little after dawn and she slowly drifts awake to the sound of birds singing in the trees. When she opens her eyes she finds Robb laying about a foot away and propping herself up on an elbow she finds Jon on his other side, both sleeping soundly. She smiles to herself at the sight, momentarily overcome with affection for her two big brothers who had ridden day and night to rescue her. She knew she could count on them, and they hadn’t let her down.

She sits up, running a hand through her hair and trying to comb out some of the knots with her fingers. She can only imagine what she must look like right now but there isn’t much to be done about it. 

She can hear the low crackle of the fire outside and the shifting of coals as someone prods at them. Knowing she won’t be able to get back to sleep, Sansa quietly pushes herself to her feet and leaves the tent, careful not to wake her brothers.

She expects to find one of the guards outside, keeping watch, but instead it’s Theon that’s sitting on the log by the fire. She pauses when she sees him and he looks up at her, surprised.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

She nods. “Just couldn’t sleep anymore.”

“I know the feeling,” he replies. “Figured I might as well let the lads get some rest if I was up anyway.” They’re quiet for a moment, nothing but the sound of birdsong in the trees, before Theon clears his throat. “I have something of yours.”

“Oh?” she asks and watches as he rises from his seat and comes toward her, pulling her green, velvet ribbon from his wrist. She smiles. “You found it. I knew you would.”

“And now I can give it back,” he says, voice soft. He holds it out to her and she makes to reach for it before stopping herself.

“Keep it,” she replies, taking his hand and curling his fingers around it once more. “A maiden’s favour for the knight who rescued her.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just nods, smiling softly, eyes not leaving hers. Carefully, she ties the ribbon back around his wrist, tucking it into his sleeve. Her fingers brush his palm as she pulls away, their touch lingering against each other for just a moment longer than necessary.

There’s a part of her that still doesn’t believe he’s really here. How can he be, after all, when she’d seen him take an arrow, seen him go limp in the mud, heard Umber promise he was dead? 

A shiver goes up her spine that has nothing to do with the chilly morning air and Theon, noticing, pulls his cloak from his shoulders and carefully wraps it around her. He’s favouring his right arm, she notices, hardly using his left at all.

“You _are_ hurt,” she murmurs, reaching up and gently placing a hand on his shoulder, just above his heart.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, voice little more than a whisper, loud enough only to be heard in the few inches of space that separate them now.

She looks up into his eyes. The pale light of the rising sun illuminates his face and Sansa can see that the dark smudges under his eyes aren’t shadows or exhaustion as she’d thought last night, but bruises. Umber had kicked him in the face, she remembers, and then immediately tries to forget.

Theon must see something cross her face because he quietly asks, “What’s wrong?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

He drops his eyes, swallowing, and his hand comes up, almost absently, to toy with the ends of a lock of her hair, his eyes finding focus there instead of on her face. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had that same fear,” he replies, voice thick.

Without bothering to second guess herself, Sansa slowly slides her hand upwards until her palm is resting against his cheek. His eyelids drop shut and he leans into her touch, relief evident in every inch of him, and she feels another wave of affection rush over her, this one entirely different from the last.

Slowly, his eyes open again, meeting her gaze, and just as she thinks he’s beginning to lean towards her, ever-so-slightly, the sound of shuffling in one of the tents causes them to jump apart, just in time as Jon pulls back the flap and emerges. He pauses when he sees them, glancing at them back and forth awkwardly, as though realizing he may have just interrupted something.

“We should start getting ready to head back to Winterfell,” he finally says, apparently deciding to ignore the situation entirely. “We’ve got a long way to go. Best get on the road early.”

Theon nods. “Right. I’ll wake the lads.”

With one last glance at Sansa he turns and disappears into one of the tents, leaving her alone with Jon.

She turns to find him watching her with eyebrows raised. “What?” she asks.

“You know what,” he replies, his voice somewhere between chiding and teasing. She feels her cheeks heat up and Jon smirks, just a bit, before moving to turn back to the tent. “I’ll rouse Robb.”

XxXx

It takes them the better part of two days to make it back to Winterfell, moving slowly as they are with Umber bound on the back of a horse being led along by Jory. They need to camp again for another night but Theon knows Robb is determined to get Sansa home before they have to do so again and, frankly, he agrees. She looks fine and she sounds fine but he’s still anxious for Maester Luwin to give her a look over all the same, just in case.

The sun is just beginning to set to the west when they crest a hill and the castle finally comes into view on the horizon, and it’s dark by the time they make it through the gates into the courtyard. They’ve barely had time to dismount before the castle doors are flung open and Lord and Lady Stark come charging out, Arya and the boys close behind. A number of other guests and servants spill into the courtyard to see what’s happening as well.

“Sansa!” Lady Catelyn exclaims at the sight of her daughter, flying to her and pulling her into her arms. Theon watches as Sansa melts into her mother’s embrace.

Lord Eddard is next, holding Sansa at arms’ length first and looking her over. “Are you alright, my dear?” he asks. “Did anyone hurt you?”

“No, Father,” Sansa shakes her head. “I’m not hurt.”

Relieved, Ned pulls his daughter against him, Sansa burying her face in his chest and for a moment Theon is reminded of the little girl she used to be, sweet and kind and the apple of her father’s eye. But then they’re pulling away from each other and once again all Theon sees is the young woman she’s become. Tired as she is, she’s still brighter than any star in the sky.

Sansa is next pulled towards her younger siblings and Ned turns to his sons, embracing first Robb then Jon, giving each of them a squeeze and saying something in their ear, too low to be heard.

Theon is surprised when Ned turns to him next, pulling him into an embrace the way he had his sons. “Thank you, my boy,” he tells him, voice earnest and laced with more emotion than Theon thinks he’s ever heard from the usually stoic Eddard Stark.

And then he’s gone, moving away from Theon towards Jory and the guards who had accompanied them. Theon watches him go, a little stunned. He shakes Jory’s hand and then each of the men’s before turning to Umber.

“Put him in the dungeon,” Ned orders. “We’ll deal with him in the morning.”

“Now, Ned, I hope we can talk about this,” one of the Lords says, stepping away from the crowd of onlookers. It’s the Greatjon, Theon sees when he turns, apparently hoping to plead for his son’s life.

“In the morning,” Ned repeats, a sharp undercurrent to his tone that has Lord Umber silently nodding and backing up again.

“Come now, my Lady,” Maester Luwin says, stepping towards Sansa. “I’d like to give you a check over and then we should get you to bed.”

“Bed sounds lovely,” Sansa smiles, a little wistfully.

“And you, Theon Greyjoy,” the maester calls out to him next. “Should never have gotten out of bed in the first place and I don’t want to see you out of it again for the next two days, at least.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Theon replies.

Now that they’re back, the thrill and stress and excitement of the past few days is finally beginning to wear off and Theon can feel just how exhausted and in pain he really is. Suddenly just making it up the stairs to his chamber seems daunting.

Robb must notice because he suddenly appears at Theon’s side. “Are you going to make it?” he asks, only half-joking.

“If I don’t do you promise to bring me a blanket wherever I collapse in the corridor?” Theon replies.

“I’ll be sure to let one of the serving girls know,” Robb assures him. “If I pass one of them on the stairs.”

“A true friend,” Theon nods. “I knew I could count on you.”

Robb laughs and they follow the rest of the family into the castle. Most of the onlookers have dispersed by now, wandering off to bed or other distractions when they realized nothing scandalous was happening in the courtyard. Despite his joking, Robb stays close by Theon’s side as they head in, and Theon doesn’t miss the way Robb lets him go first up the stairs.

Theon is grateful, considering he feels like he could pass out at any moment.

When they reach the top of the steps, where the girls go one way and the boys another, Lady Catelyn and the Maester move to lead Sansa off to her chamber and Theon turns towards his own.

He pauses when he hears someone call, “Oh, Theon!”

Sansa is approaching him, and Theon is aware that all eyes are on them but whether it be the exhaustion or the relief, he finds he doesn’t care much. “Sansa?”

“Here,” she says, pulling his cloak from around her shoulders and holding it out to him. “Thank you.”

He takes it, eyes never leaving hers. “You’re welcome.”

She swallows, smiles almost shyly. “Good night.”

Sansa turns, ducking her head as she hurries back to her mother and not looking back as she heads to her chamber. 

“Good night,” Theon says to her retreating back, watching her go.

“Gods,” Robbs groans, once everyone else is out of earshot. “If I’d known you’d be this sickening I might have taken more of an issue.”

“You’re one to talk,” Theon shoots back as they begin making their way down the hallway once more. “You’ve never had to spend an entire evening with you making eyes at Alys Karstark.” He watches Robb closely as he says it, waiting for his reaction. When Robb doesn’t meet his eye but the tips of his ears go red, Theon smiles. “So, you _do_ like her. I wasn’t sure.”

They’ve made it to Theon’s chamber and he pushes open the door, Robb following him in and shutting it behind him. Theon moves to the edge of his bed and begins unlacing his boots while Robb stands awkwardly just inside the door.

“Can I tell you something?” he finally asks and Theon looks up at him.

“Of course,” Theon replies, wondering what Robb’s about to say.

Robb sighs, hesitating, before he says, “I’ve asked Alys to marry me.”

Theon is stunned for a moment before he finally manages to croak out a, “When?”

“Before you woke up,” Robb tells him. “Sansa was missing, you had almost died, and I don’t know, I guess life just seemed short. You never know what can happen, so why waste time?”

“And what did she say?” Theons asks.

A smile breaks across Robb’s face and Theon has his answer. “She said yes.” 

Theon smiles too, but there’s one last thing he has to be sure of. “And you love her?”

Robb goes a little bit red again. “She’s smart. She’s fun. And I think she’ll be a good Lady Stark one day. I think she’ll be able to fill my mother’s shoes.”

Theon can think of no higher praise from Robb, but it doesn’t completely answer his question. “So, is that a yes, then?”

“Aye, that’s a yes,” Robb laughs. “I love her.”

“Well, then good,” Theon replies, pushing himself to his feet again and drawing Robb into a hug. “I wish you both every happiness.”

“Thank you,” Robb says as they separate and Theon, already overexerted, sits down again.

“Have you told anyone else yet?” Theon asks.

“No,” Robb shakes his head. “We thought we should wait until everything had calmed down.”

“I suppose we have a wedding to look forward to, then,” Theon says.

Robb gives him a sly, knowing glance. “As if we haven’t always,” he replies and then, before Theon can retort, turns and retreats from the room.

Theon gives a short laugh and falls back against his mattress, sinking into the furs and pillows, asleep before he can even think about getting undressed.


	10. Chapter 9

Exhausted, Sansa sleeps more soundly that night than she thinks she ever has. She’s brought breakfast in bed the next morning, her mother insisting that she take things slow or a few days. While she appreciates the concern, Sansa doesn’t really think it’s necessary. She feels fine, Maester Luwin had declared her fine, and after being a prisoner for two days she isn’t particularly inclined to stay cooped up in her chamber.

Still, for her mother’s sake, she spends most of the morning stitching by her window and trying not to go stir crazy. Finally, just when she thinks she can’t take it anymore, there comes a soft _tap_ at her door. She throws down her needlepoint and stands, eager for whatever distraction is about to present itself.

“Come in,” she calls.

The door pushes open and Bree steps in, giving a quick bow. “Your father has asked to see you, m’Lady,” she says. “He’s in his study.”

“Thank you, Bree,” Sansa replies, maybe a touch more earnestly than is strictly necessary, and bolts from the room, heading around the corner and down the corridor towards her father’s study.

She can hear voices before she even reaches it and pauses a moment to listen to what they’re saying.

“Come, now, Ned, the girl is fine, she said so herself,” one voice is saying. “There was no harm done in the end.”

“No harm done?” her father’s angry voice replies. “Need I remind you, Lord Umber, of what happened to the last young man who took it upon himself to carry off a daughter of House Stark?”

Sansa swallows, feeling something almost like guilt in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t considered it before but these past few days must have been like Lyanna all over again for her father. It hadn’t been her fault, of course. The Smalljon had attacked them and she hadn’t had any way to defend herself, but still the thought of her father worrying over her back at Winterfell, not knowing if she was alive or dead, makes her feel just awful.

“Now, Ned,” Lord Umber says, an edge of desperation to his voice now. “We went to war for your sister and we all grieved her loss, but this is something different. Your girl is home safe now, not a scratch on her, and my boy says--”

“We’ll see about what your boy says,” her father cuts him off.

Sansa, curious as to just what defense the Smalljon is claiming, finally rounds the corner, knocking lightly on the door to her father’s study. She goes in when he calls out and stands with her hands politely clasped in front of her, looking back and forth between the two lords.

“I was told you wanted to see me, Father?” she asks.

“Yes,” Ned replies. He’s sitting behind his desk, a small fire crackling in the hearth across the room. Lord Umber is standing and, from what Sansa can tell, doesn’t look as though he’s had much sleep. “There’s something I need to ask you about.”

“Of course, Father,” she says and when Ned gestures at the chair across the desk from him, Sansa obediently sits. Awkwardly, she glances up at Lord Umber who’s watching her intently, arms crossed over his chest.

Her father must notice because, voice taking on a sort of forced politeness, he says, “Perhaps it’s best if you gave us a moment, Jon.”

Lord Umber looks back and forth between them and Sansa thinks he wants to argue but decides better of it because he simply nods. “Right. I’ll just be downstairs then.”

They wait until the door has closed behind him before Sansa looks up at her father again and Ned gives her a warm smile. “How are you, my dear?”

“I’m well, Father,” she tells him. “Though Mother is insisting I stay in my chamber.”

Ned huffs a laugh. “She’s had quite a scare.”

“I know,” Sansa nods, looking down at her hands in her lap. “And I feel awful about it.”

“There’s something I need to ask you,” Ned goes on and when Sansa looks up it’s to find him eyeing her with a serious expression. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

Sansa feels herself sit up a little bit straighter. “Of course, Father.”

“Right,” Ned nods. “Now, the young Lord Umber has made the claim that you rode off with him willingly and I need to know what you have to say about that.”

Sansa stares at him in stunned silence for a moment before indignantly gasping, “Willingly?!”

Ned sighs. “You wouldn’t be the first maiden to escape a betrothal by running off with another man.”

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Sansa lets out a most unlady-like laugh, quickly slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Composing herself, she tries not to sound too incredulous as she clarifies, “You think I ran off with _Jon Umber_ to get away from _Theon_?”

Her father eyes her for a long moment, longer than Sansa thinks should be necessary, before finally replying, “No, not particularly. But I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t find out for sure.”

“I didn’t go with him willingly, Father,” she assures him, as earnestly as she can. “He had to gag me and bind my hands and throw me over the back of a horse. I was tied to a pole when Theon found me. I still have the bruises on my wrists.”

She holds her arms up to prove it, pulling the sleeves of her dress down enough to reveal the deep purple and blue marks circling her wrists. She sees her father clench his jaw and lets her hands fall back into her lap, knowing he’s seen enough.

“And even if I did so desperately want out of my betrothal to Theon,” she finds herself going on, angry at Umber’s lie. “You can’t really believe I’d go about it like _this_ , can you? Running off without a word. And Umber nearly killed Theon when he took me. I’d never want _that_. He’s my brother’s best friend, if nothing else.”

At the end of her little rant she looks up to find her father watching her closely again, his expression thoughtful. After a moment, he quietly asks, “How _do_ you feel about your betrothal to Theon?”

Sansa swallows. She hadn’t been expecting that and she has no idea how to answer. The truth -- that she’s been daydreaming of what her gown will look like; that her heartbeat quickens at just the mention of him; that there is a small, desperate part of her that is _longing_ to feel his touch against her skin -- is out of the question. 

“I know it’s my duty,” she finally ventures. 

Ned nods. “But I want to know how you _feel_ about it. If it’s something you badly want out of, I may be able to write to the King.”

It’s almost funny. There was once a time when Sansa had wanted desperately to hear her father make such an offer, to tell her that she doesn’t have to marry Theon, that she can be free to follow her heart and fall in love. It seems silly to her now, that she was ever so convinced those things first required an end to her betrothal.

But how does she tell that to her father?

“I--” she falters, trying to search for the right words. “I’m… used to it.”

“You can be honest with me, love,” her father promises, leaning his elbows on his desk and watching her with serious, earnest eyes.

_Honest_ , Sansa thinks, taking a deep breath. Alright. Not looking away from her father, she answers, “I don’t want an end to the betrothal.”

Ned nods, sitting up, but the surprise Sansa had thought she’d see on his face is missing. Suddenly she’s unsure of what answer her father had been expecting her to give.

“And Theon?” he asks her then. “If given the choice, do you think he would also choose to continue the betrothal?”

She remembers the way Theon had looked at her the morning after they’d found her, or in Wintertown as they waited for their horses, or when they were alone in the woods before it had all gone so horribly wrong. She thinks of the way he’d held her in the tent after setting her free, the way he’d been close to her side the whole way home, the soft look in his eye as she’d given him back his cloak the night before. He’d been hurt, so hurt Maester Luwin said he shouldn’t even be out of bed, but he’d come for her anyway.

“I think he would,” she replies, voice soft.

Her father sighs. “That’s good, if it’s true. Still, the reason for the betrothal was to ensure a lasting alliance between our houses. But with Robb and Theon as close as they are, I don’t think that’s something we need to be concerned about. So, I leave the choice to the two of you. I won’t hold either of you to the betrothal if it’s not what you both want.”

Sansa stares at him in shock. “But what about the King?” she asks. “Or Theon’s family?”

“I can handle Robert,” her father assures her, dismissive. “And I don’t think the Greyjoys would see it as any great loss. They weren’t keen on the match to begin with. That’s something you’ll have to contend with if you and Theon do decide to wed.”

Sansa gives her father a half-smile. “Neither was mine, but you all seem to have come around to _him_.”

Ned returns her smile. “I just want you to be happy, love,” he tells her. “Wherever you find it.”

“Thank you, Father,” she replies, swallowing down the lump she feels rising in her throat. 

Feeling things here are at an end, Sansa rises and turns, making for the door. With her hand on the handle, she pauses and turns back to her father.

“What’s going to happen to him?” she asks. “Umber?”

“He committed a terrible crime,” Ned answers. “And there are consequences for such things.”

“So, he’s going to die?” she questions. She’d threatened him with as much when she’d been his captive but now that it’s actually before her it makes her strangely uncomfortable.

Ned shakes his head, sighing. “You don’t need to worry about such things.”

Sansa watches her father for a moment, but she doesn’t know how to explain the odd, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach so instead she simply nods and leaves the study.

XxXx

Theon doesn’t know how long he sleeps, but it must be at least midday before he awakes. Glancing about he can see that someone has left a tray of food on the table -- toast and bacon and runny eggs. It’s likely cold by now but there’s a rumble in his stomach that doesn’t seem to mind so, slowly, he pushes himself up. It’s an uncomfortable process and he bites back a groan, but already he can tell the pain is beginning to lessen.

He doesn’t remember getting undressed, but he’s shirtless now, the bed covers pulled over him. Glancing at his shoulder he sees that his bandages have been changed and realizes the Maester must have come in at some point.

Rising from his bed, he makes his way over to the table, dropping into one of the chairs and reaching for a strip of bacon. It is cold, but he stuffs it in his mouth all the same, reaching for a piece of toast next. The eggs he avoids -- cold eggs are something he cannot abide -- but the rest is half-gone in a matter of seconds and the only thing that saves the other half is a soft knock at his door.

He pauses, looking up, and swallows his mouthful of toast before calling, “Yes?”

“May I come in?” Sansa’s voice quietly drifts back to him.

Suddenly, Theon is on his feet again, gritting his teeth at the pain that shoots through his shoulder. He finds a tunic and throws it on before heading for the door and taking a deep breath. Opening it, he finds Sansa waiting patiently on the other side.

She looks up at him, almost nervous, and says, “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t,” he tells her and, realizing he’s standing in her way, steps aside and gestures for her to enter. 

She moves past him and Theon is about to shut the door when he thinks the better of it, leaving it half-open instead. If someone were to find them in here with the door closed, her reputation would never recover. Her being here at all is risky enough.

He watches as she glances around his chamber and realizes that this is probably the first time she’s ever been in here. He silently curses himself for not at least pulling up the bed covers.

Sansa turns back to him, gesturing at the table. “May I?”

“Of course,” he replies. 

She sits and he moves to take the seat across from her, lowering himself down carefully. His half-eaten tray is still sitting where he left it and he slides it to the other side of the table.

“How are you?” Sansa asks when he turns back to her.

“Fine,” he answers.

“Liar,” she shoots back, giving him a look. “You’ve been saying you’re fine for days.”

“I’ve been fine for days,” he tells her. Since the moment he found her, alive and whole and safe, he’s been fine.

She shakes her head, eyes dropping down to her lap where she’s fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“Is something the matter?” he asks, watching her closely.

She looks back up at him, her expression troubled. “I’ve just been to see my father.”

“About Umber?” he questions softly.

She nods. “Father’s going to execute him, isn’t he?”

Theon hesitates, seeing that she’s disturbed by that idea, but he’s not about to lie to her. “Probably.” Sansa swallows and looks down again. “Do you not want that?”

“I don’t know,” she tells him, meeting his eye again. “He’s cruel and vile and he tried to kill you and now he’s saying that I went with him willingly--”

“He what?” Theon interjects. “That’s not how I remember it.”

“Nor I,” she agrees. “But don’t worry, Father doesn’t believe a word of it. Still, though, awful as Umber is, I don’t know that I want him _dead_.”

Theon watches her carefully. “You don’t think he deserves it?”

“I don’t think I want a man’s head on my conscience,” she explains. “If he dies, he dies because of _me_ and I have to live the rest of my life knowing that.”

“If he dies it’s because of the choices he made,” Theon replies. “That’s not your fault.”

“I know that,” she tells him. “And I’m not saying I don’t think he should be punished somehow, I just don’t see what good killing him does. Even if I was hurt, how would that help me? The idea of my brothers all watching as my father beheads the man you stole me seems like revenge, not justice. I don’t want that.”

Theon is taken aback at this, though he realizes after a moment that perhaps he shouldn’t be. Sansa has always been the kind, compassionate one. He can still remember when they were children and the way she cried when she found a bluebird with a broken wing in the Godswood. She was always the one trying to make peace between him and Jon, as well -- even more so than Robb who often found humour in their rivalry -- simply because she hated to see them fighting.

“Then what do you want?” he asks her.

Sansa sighs. “I had thought, perhaps, Father might have him take the Black…”

“Is that what you want?” he presses when she trails off.

“I think I’d prefer that,” she nods. “Allow him to live out the rest of his days being of some use to the realm.”

“Then you should tell your father that,” he advises. 

“He told me not to concern myself,” she replies.

“He’s trying to protect you,” Theon says. “If he knows executing Umber is going to bring you distress, he won’t want to do it.”

Sansa nods. “I suppose you’re right. I will tell him, then.”

“Good,” Theon says, still watching her. He expects to see some degree of relief in her expression at the decision but she still looks troubled. “Was something else the matter?”

She looks up at him, searching his face, hesitating, and just when she opens her mouth to respond the door swings open the rest of the way and Maester Luwin appears.

“Oh,” he says, pausing when he sees them. “Apologies, my Lady. I was just coming to check on Theon.”

“I was just doing to same,” Sansa replies, standing quickly. “Just wanted to see how he was feeling. Excuse me.”

She ducks her head, not looking at Theon again as she moves toward the door.

“Ah, my Lady,” Maester Luwin stops her. “Your mother was looking for you. Seems there was some news this morning.”

“News?” Sansa asks, confused.

The Maester gives her a smile. “Best go find your mother.”

Still looking confused, she turns once more and heads off down the corridor. Maester Luwin turns back to Theon, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Theon asks. 

“Oh, nothing,” the Maester replies, voice just this side of sly. “Nothing at all. Now let’s get a look at that shoulder.”

XxXx

Sansa leaves her mother’s sitting room, stunned. Robb is engaged. It was just a few days ago that they were gossiping over tea about whether or not he even _liked_ Alys and here they are, getting married.

She should go find her brother and congratulate him. She should go find her father and tell him how she feels about Umber’s fate. She should go find Theon and finish telling him what she’d been terrified to tell him -- that they’re betrothal is, for all intents and purposes, off.

She needs to tell him, she knows, and she shouldn’t be afraid. He feels for her what she feels for him, she’s almost positive that he does. The problem is that _almost_. What if she’s wrong? What if he’s just been being kind, trying to make the best of the situation? What if, when given the choice, he decides he doesn’t want her after all?

Then she shouldn’t want him, Sansa tells herself. She shouldn’t want to trap him into a marriage he doesn’t want just for her own sake. It’s selfish and unfair. If she gets to choose, so should he.

Still, though, she finds her feet taking her not back up to the part of the castle where her family sleeps, but down to the Great Hall. Theon needs to rest, she decides, and there’s no rush. She can tell him later.

In the Great Hall she finds her older brother and his soon-to-be-bride, along with Arya, Jon, and Torrhen. She pastes what she hopes is a convincing smile on her face and approaches their table.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she calls and they all turn to her, a grin breaking out across Robb’s face.

“You’re up!” he replies, standing. “I didn’t know if we would be seeing you today.”

Sansa wraps her arms around her brother’s neck and he gives her a squeeze. “Well, when Mother told me the good news I could hardly go back to bed.”

When they step away from each other Sansa can see that Robb is only smiling wider. “Were you very surprised?”

“To find out you actually have taste?” Sansa teases. “ _Shocked_.”

Robb laughs and Sansa takes the opportunity to slip around him and take his recently vacated seat next to Alys. She glances back at her brother to see him roll his eyes, but he doesn’t argue, just moves to the seat next to Jon.

“So, I suppose that means we’re to be sisters, then,” Sansa says, turning to Alys.

She smiles, giving a quick glance at Torrhen, before replying, “I’ve always wanted a sister.”

“So have I,” Sansa tells her and Arya, across the table, scoffs. “When is the wedding going to be?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Alys responds.

Sansa feels her eyes go wide. “The day after tomorrow?!” She turns to Robb. “Mother didn’t mention _that_.”

Robb shrugs, still smiling. “Traditionally the Dawn Festival always ended with a wedding. All the guests are already here, we’ll be having a feast that night anyway. We don’t need much for the ceremony.” 

“Except a gown,” Alys says. “But according to your mother, the dressmaker in the village has worked miracles before.”

“That’s true enough,” Sansa allows, side-eyeing her sister. “Anything that can make Arya look like a Lady is certainly miraculous.”

“Gods, you’re in a mood today,” Arya shoots back, eyes narrowing mischievously. “Jealous? Always thought you’d be the first to marry, did you?”

Sansa glares at her, but then she notices how the table falls silent. Robb exchanges a glance with Alys, Jon doesn’t meet her eye, even Torrhen smirks. Suddenly it’s like she’s the only one who’s not in on some joke. 

Arya has been teasing her about Theon for days and it’s no surprise that she would have blabbed something to Jon about it, but the Karstarks? _Robb?_ That Robb might have any inkling of a romantic connection between her and Theon and not be throwing a fit is hard to believe, and yet she can’t deny the knowing look in his eyes.

Sansa feels strange sitting here -- uncomfortable -- and not just because of their teasing, but because they seem to be making an assumption about something she isn’t sure of herself anymore. She and Theon aren’t betrothed any longer, not really, and they may never be married, not unless it’s what he wants, which he’s never actually said that it is.

“Shut up,” she hears herself tell Arya, though her voice sounds hollow. 

Whether any of the rest of them notice or not, she never finds out because at just that moment Torrhen decides to ask, “So, when are we heading out then, lads?”

He must have said something wrong because Sansa sees Robb and Jon exchange a look and she’s pretty sure Alys kicks her brother under the table.

“Head out for what?” she finally asks when no one shows any intention of speaking up.

Robb sighs. “To deal with Umber,” he tells her gently.

Sansa stares at him in shock. “That’s happening today?”

“Best to get it over with,” Robb replies. “But you don’t need to be worrying about that.”

She feels sick again and quietly excuses herself. She thinks someone calls after her as she leaves the hall but she doesn’t look back, instead following the familiar route up to her father’s study.

As she approaches she can hear voices again, the same ones as before.

“He’s my son, Ned,” she hears the Greatjon pleading. “My son and heir.”

“You have another son,” her father replies, his voice firm but not unkind. “This won’t be the end of your house.”

“And what comfort would that be to you?” Lord Umber goes on. “If someone wanted your oldest boy’s head, would the fact that you have younger ones make that alright? He’s my son, Ned, my _boy_.”

She hears her father sigh. “He kidnapped my daughter, Jon. And he nearly killed my ward, a boy I’ve raised and intended to make part of my own family one day. Have you considered what would have happened if Theon Greyjoy had died out there in the woods? We’d be back at war with the Iron Islands.”

Lord Umber doesn’t seem to have a response to that and Sansa has heard enough, anyway. Gently she taps on the door, waiting for her father’s voice before she enters.

“Sansa, love,” her father says, surprised to see her. “What’re you doing here?”

“I wanted to speak to you,” she tells him, nervous with the Greatjon’s desperate eyes on her. “About what’s going to happen to Jon Umber.”

“I told you not to concern yourself with that,” Ned sighs, looking at her softly.

“I can’t help it,” she replies and when her father looks at her in confusion, sighs, trying to figure out the best way to phrase her thoughts. “I don’t think he should die.”

She hears Lord Umber gasp but goes on before he can speak. “Not for his own sake,” she says, looking up at the Greatjon with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry, my Lord, but your son is vile and cruel and I don’t want to imagine what he would have done to me if my brothers hadn’t found me in time, but--” turning back to her father “--killing him doesn’t feel like justice and I don’t want to live the rest of my life with a man’s head on my conscience, no matter who he is.”

The room is silent for a long moment as her father considers her before finally asking, “What would you suggest we do with him, then?”

“Have him take the Black,” she answers. “He betrayed our house and all of the North. Let him spend the rest of his life making amends for it.”

His eyes slide from her up to Lord Umber who’s watching him with eyes half-hopeful and half-pleading. Finally, her father nods. “Very well.”

She hears the Greatjon let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Ned,” he says to her father before turning to Sansa herself and taking one of her hands in both of his. “And you, lass. Gods bless you.”

“You’ll stay for my son’s wedding,” Ned goes on then, looking at Umber. “And then my men will escort you and your son north. You don’t have to go all the way to the Wall with them if you don’t want, but my men will stay with your son until he is securely behind the walls of Castle Black.”

“Aye,” Lord Umber nods, emphatic. “Aye, Ned, I’ll agree to that.”

With one last glance between father and daughter, and one final squeeze of Sansa’s hand, Lord Umber turns and leaves the room. Sansa watches him go before looking back at her father.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

She nods. “Yes, Father.”

Ned gives her a small, soft smile. “You’ve a kind heart, love.”

“Do I?” Sansa asks, feeling herself smirk just a bit. “I can’t imagine he’ll have a good time of it at the Wall. Especially not once he’s been introduced to First Ranger Benjen Stark.”

At this, Ned barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Aye, love. I think you may be right about that.”


	11. Chapter 10

Theon spends the better part of the two days after they get home in his chamber, mostly asleep. A serving girl comes in each morning to fill his washbasin, Maester Luwin checks on him periodically to make sure his wounds aren’t festering, and Robb stops by every now and then to update him on life in the outside world, but otherwise he’s left alone. Aside from the one conversation they had, he doesn’t see Sansa at all.

At least, not in his waking hours. He seems to dream of nothing but her. Some of them are awful -- twisted, exaggerated memories of when Umber attacked them in the woods or terrible visions of all the horrific things that could have happened to her if he’d arrived too late. Some, though, are decidedly not awful. He’s dreamt of walking through the Godswood with her, hand-in-hand, or strolling along the beaches of Pyke. He’s dreamt of kissing her in the Wintertown market the way he’d been so tempted to do in real life. He’s dreamt of their wedding night -- of the way she’ll sound and feel and taste as they move together under the furs of their bed.

It’s from just such a dream that he awakes now, aware first of the ache in his loins and not the one in his shoulder. That must mean he’s healing, at least.

Today is the last day of the Dawn Festival and Robb’s wedding day and Theon will be damned if he’s staying in bed again. Pushing himself up, he glances out the window. The sun is already bright in the sky and he runs a hand over his face. It must be at least midday already, but that’s alright. He’s never seen a Northern wedding ceremony but he knows they take place at night so he hasn’t missed anything yet.

He’s just finished washing and is in search of something to put on when there’s a knock at his door and a moment later, Maester Luwin has entered the chamber.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, seeing Theon on his feet. “And out of bed.”

“I promised you two days, it’s been two days,” Theon shoots back. “I’m not missing Robb’s wedding.”

“Nor would I expect you to,” the Maester replies with a chuckle. “Though I do expect you to take it easy, especially on the wine.”

Theon rolls his eyes but Maester Luwin levels him with a look that makes him feel like a ten year old boy who got caught not paying attention to his lessons. “Alright,” he sighs.

“Good,” Maester Luwin nods. “Now let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

He sits Theon down in a chair, standing behind him, and begins to unravel his bandages. It’s a meticulous process and Theon does his best to sit still but it’s hard, especially when Maester Luwin gets to the end, peeling the bandage from the wound itself and exposing it to the open air. Theon hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut and head falling forward.

“How does it feel?” the Maester asks. “Still giving you pain?”

“A bit,” he replies. “Not as bad as before. But it itches.”

Maester Luwin hums. “That’s good. Itching means healing.”

He spends a few more moments inspecting it before apparently deciding he likes what he sees and beginning to bandage Theon back up.

“No signs of corruption,” he tells him. “A little lower and it might have punctured your lung, a little the right, your heart. You’re very lucky, you know.”

“Lucky?” Theon scoffs. “Don’t feel particularly lucky.”

“No?” the Maester replies. “You’re alive with no long-term damage done. Lady Sansa was found and brought home before any real harm could come to her. The men who rescued her all returned safely, as well. Another winter is over and tonight the heir to Winterfell weds the daughter of a noble Northern house. I’d say we’ve all been very lucky.”

Theon gives him a bemused look over his shoulder. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

Maester Luwin raises his eyebrows at him. “Do you disagree?”

“I suppose not,” Theon replies, pushing himself to his feet once more. “Not when you put it like that.”

“Good,” the Maester smiles warmly at him. He makes for the door but turns back at the last moment, hand on the latch. “And don’t forget what I said. Take things easy for now--” a subtle, sly smile “--perhaps there’s a young lady that might be willing to take your arm.”

“Gods,” Theon shakes his head, unsure if he should be amused or embarrassed. “Don’t tell me even _you_ know about that, now.”

“Now?” Maester Luwin replies, smiling as if at some joke. “When you were eleven you were sitting lessons in my chamber and I asked you what it would mean to be Lord of the Iron Islands.” He still has his hand on the door latch, though his eyes are on Theon. “I expected you to tell me about the duties and responsibilities of a liege lord. Instead you answered ‘I will get to go home to Pyke and take Sansa with me as my Lady’. I knew then.”

Theon stares at him in confusion. “I don’t remember that.”

“No, I don’t expect you would,” the Maester chuckles. “You were doodling something on your parchment at the time -- the way you always did -- and didn’t even look up at me as you said it, completely absent-minded. That’s how I knew you were being honest.”

Theon doesn’t know what to say to that and the Maester must know because, with one last knowing smile, he opens the door and leaves Theon to his dressing.

Robb is outside when Theon finds him, up on one of the catwalks looking down on the training yard where Jon and some of the other men are sparring. Theon joins him, leaning against the railing and gazing down at the fighters as well.

Robb smiles when he sees him. “Well, look who’s out of bed.”

“I couldn’t look at those four walls a moment longer,” Theon replies. “Or I would’ve gone mad.”

Robb laughs. “You picked a good day to make your return.”

Theon turns to see Robb grinning and can’t help but smile back. “Nervous?”

“A bit,” Robb shrugs. Theon can see the way his hand grips the railing, though, the way he shifts his weight back-and-forth from one foot to the other. He’s full of nervous energy, Theon can tell.

“Why aren’t you down there with the rest of them?” he asks, nodding towards the training yard.

“Mother says it would be in poor taste to have a black eye at my own wedding,” Robb tells him with a slight roll of the eyes.

Theon chuckles. “I suppose she’s right about that.”

By this point, Jon has noticed the two of them and begun making his way up the catwalk towards the spot where they’re standing. They both turn as he approaches.

“You’re alive, then?” he asks, looking Theon over

“Sorry to disappoint,” Theon replies.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Jon says, leaning against one of the wooden posts and crossing his arms. “I’m sure men’ll be finding excuses to shoot you for years to come.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, Robb looking back and forth between them apprehensively, before Theon and Jon both break out in laughter.

“Let’s hope they’re all as bad as shot as Umber’s man,” Theon says, grinning.

“Speaking of Umber,” Jon sighs, the humour leaving his face as he glances at Robb. “There’s something I needed to tell you.”

Robb’s brows furrow in. “What is it?”

“I’m going to go with them,” Jon says. “When they take Umber to the Wall.”

“Go with them?” Robb asks. “To stay?”

Jon shrugs. “It’s always been my intention to take the Black someday.”

“But now?” Robb demands. Jon’s been talking about joining the Night’s Watch since they were just boys and Theon knows Robb has been dreading this moment.

“Feels like it’s time,” Jon tells him, looking back and forth between Robb and Theon. “You’ll both be married soon enough and lords in your own right. We’re not children anymore.”

“You’re sure?” Robb asks, eyeing him as though he’s hoping he’ll say no. “Once you say your vows there’s no going back.”

“I could say the same thing to you,” Jon replies, some of the humour returning. “Aye, I’m sure. I was never going to stay at Winterfell forever.”

“No,” Robb sighs, glances at Theon. “No, I suppose neither of you are.”

Theon and Jon exchange a look. It’s true, of course. Neither of them belong at Winterfell, not really. No matter how much of a home it’s been to them, neither of them are Starks, not like Robb is.

“But let’s not worry about that now,” Robb goes on, seeming to shake off the fog that’s been cast over them. “Today is supposed to be a celebration.”

“Right,” Jon nods.

Robb turns to Theon. “I hope you realize, though,” he says. “That this means you better not be going anywhere anytime soon.”

Theon laughs. “I suppose that’s up to my father.”

“And long may he live,” Robb agrees, the grin returning to his face as he claps Theon on his good shoulder.

XxXx

The women spend the day together, gossiping and fawning over the bride. It’s the sort of thing Sansa should love, but she can’t shake the strange, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It’s some combination of dread and disappointment -- dread because she still hasn’t told Theon about the betrothal and disappointment because she’s starting to fear she’ll never get _this_ , the experience of being a bride herself.

Perhaps that’s silly. Even if Theon won’t have her, surely the son of some noble family will. She’s the eldest daughter of House Stark, after all. She’d make a fine match for any young lord. 

Of course, she doesn’t _want_ just any young lord. She doesn’t want to marry for politics or convenience or station. She wants to marry for love.

And she loves Theon. 

There’s no use pretending she doesn’t. She hasn’t seen him in two days while he’s been recovering and already she misses him. She’s been dying to talk out her troubles with him -- confide in him -- which is ironic given he’s the cause of her troubles. If not for that she probably would have snuck up to his chamber already.

Though, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a good idea. When she’d gone to see him the other day, she’d been so consumed by her worries that she hadn’t stopped to consider the propriety of it. To enter his bedchamber at all was scandalous, but to be there with him _alone_? She’s lucky it was Maester Luwin that found them and not one of the servants.

The other problem, of course, is now that she knows what the inside of his bedchamber looks like, she can’t seem to stop picturing it. Or rather, picturing herself in it. They’d sat feet from his bed and wouldn’t it have been so easy for her have fallen into that feather mattress instead of lowering herself into one of the chairs? He would have closed the door fully this time -- locked it maybe -- and followed her down.

“It’s time!” her mother’s voice calls out and Sansa is broken from her reverie, feeling herself blush as she realizes where she’d let her daydreams take her.

Although, perhaps daydreams isn’t the right word. As Sansa glances toward one of the windows she can see that the sun has set and darkness has fallen over Winterfell. The wedding will be beginning soon.

All the ladies in the room have begun to rise up and head towards the door, many stopping to compliment the bride one last time. Lady Karstark stays by Alys’ side until they and the three ladies of House Stark are the only ones remaining.

Sansa takes Alys by the hands, smiling warmly at her. “The next time we speak, we’ll be sisters.”

Alys smiles too. “I can’t wait.”

She embraces Sansa then Arya and Catelyn and the three Stark women leave Alys alone with her mother.

“We’d best hurry down,” Catelyn says as the door shuts behind them. “Come along now, girls.”

The rest of the women are already downstairs, reunited with their husbands and sons, and beginning to head out to the Godswood. Sansa sees Gawen Glover making a beeline for Arya and quickly gets her sister’s attention, silently warning her. Arya, understanding, slips through the crowd in the other direction and when Sansa spots her next she’s got her arm threaded through Jon’s, heading towards the door.

The sound of a throat clearing behind her causes her to turn. Theon smiles when she sees him and she can’t help but smile back. He looks much better than he did the last time she saw him, hair combed and wearing a fine doublet.

“You look lovely,” he tells her, voice low as party guests filter by them.

“Thank you,” she replies, glancing down at the pale pink gown she’d chosen, feeling her colour rise again. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger at her neck for just a moment. She’s wearing the necklace he gave her. She had wondered if he’d notice. Gently, she reaches up and touches it, carefully straightening the chain against her collar bone. “Do you like it?”

She sees his throat bob as he swallows. “Very much.”

They’re nearly the last ones in the hall now and Theon offers her his arm, which she happily takes, and leads her outside.

XxXx

There will be no bedding ceremony, that much had been decreed by Lord Stark who finds them distasteful. In spite of that, though, the wedding feast is a night Theon feels he’s unlikely to forget, and only partially because he’s taking Maester Luwin’s advice and going easy on the drink.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is full to the brim with music and laughter and dancing. The newlyweds have hardly been parted, except when one of the guests comes to claim a dance with either the bride or groom. Theon has already had his dance with Alys, Robb taking the opportunity to spin Sansa around the dancefloor. He’d even danced with Arya, though that was because he’d seen Gawen Glover pestering her and decided it was the best way to free her of him.

Aside from that, though, he’s spent the entire night at Sansa’s side. She’s beautiful, aglow in the firelight of the hall, cheeks flushed from the wine and the dancing, eyes bright with happiness and excitement.

_Gods, he’d missed her._

It’s stupid, he knows. It wasn’t even a whole two days and he’d been asleep for most of it anyway, but no matter how enticing his dreams of her had gotten, he’d still rather have this. 

He watches as Robb twirls his new bride across the room, Alys’ red hair fanning out behind her, bright against the white of her dress and Theon can’t help but imagine another crimson-haired young maid draped in a bridal gown. Before he can think about it -- and maybe because he’s had a _bit_ more than the Maester would approve of -- he reaches for Sansa’s hand where it rests on the bench between them. At his touch she turns, looking away from the dancers and into his eyes.

Theon leans in close, to be heard over the music and chatter, not because he just wants to be near her. “Come for a walk with me.”

For a moment she looks as though she wants to question him, but instead she nods. He stands, pulling her up by the hand and leading her out of the hall. They head towards the door, the guards posted in the corridor pretending not to see them, and out into the courtyard.

“Theon!” Sansa laughs and, Gods, he’ll never tire of that sound. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere almost as beautiful as you are,” he tells her and grins when she blushes.

It’s late, past midnight, but even blind Theon could trace the familiar path to the Godswood. He leads her through the stone archway and even from here they can still hear the faint sound of music drifting through the night air from the Great Hall. 

“This is one of those songs you love,” Theon says, recognizing the melody. “About Jonquil and her knight.”

“Those always were my favourites,” she agrees and Theon brings their hands up, spinning her in a circle as they meander their way through the trees. 

She closes her eyes, dancing away from him. The lanterns that had lit Alys’ path toward the Heart Tree are still glowing and Sansa is illuminated in warm, golden light as she twirls herself through them. 

Finally coming to a stop, she turns to Theon with a smile. “Can you believe Robb is _married_?”

He laughs, catching up to her and taking her hand in his once more and continuing on their stroll. “Hardly,” he replies. “Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t beginning to understand the appeal.”

Perhaps that’s too forward but Theon finds he doesn’t much care. What’s the use in caution now, when he knows he loves her? He already nearly lost her once, why should he waste anymore time on propriety? 

They’ve reached the centre of the Godswood now, the towering old weirwood spreading it’s scarlet canopy over them as they stand next to the still, clear pool at it’s base. 

“Sansa,” he says, a thousand words on the tip of his tongue, but she stops him.

“Wait,” she cuts him off. “Before you say anything else, there’s something you need to know.”

He watches her, confused and concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“That’s yet to be seen,” she murmurs, almost more to herself than to him. “It’s about our betrothal.”

“What about it?” he asks, an anxious feeling beginning to thrum in his chest.

She shifts awkwardly, not quite meeting his eye. “Father says he doesn’t intend to hold us to it any longer.”

Theon hardly dares to breath. “What does that mean? Is our betrothal off?”

“Only if we want it to be,” she explains, looking up at him with something so akin to hope in her eyes it makes him ache. “But you’re not under any obligation anymore. If you don’t want to--”

He kisses her.

He kisses her because she’s talking nonsense and this is the best way to get her to see it. He kisses her because she’s beautiful and he loves her and he’s been dying to. He kisses her because he wants to, because he chooses to.

To her credit, Sansa doesn’t hesitate, kissing him back with fervor. Her arms wind around his neck as his encircle her waist, pulling her as close to him as he can get her. She tastes like lavender and lemon cakes and maybe a little wine. Theon could stay wrapped up in this moment forever, he thinks, alone under the stars with her warm, pliant form pressed against him.

But all good things must come to an end and a moment later they’ve pulled away from each other to catch their breath, parting only enough to press their foreheads together. Sansa smiles at him and Theon can’t help the words that come tumbling out of his mouth.

“Marry me,” he whispers.

Her eyes go wide. “What?”

“Marry me,” he repeats. “Not because of the politics or because our fathers arranged it or because the king wants us to. Marry me because I love you, Sansa Stark, and I want you to be my wife.”

A smile spreads across her face, bright as the midday sun and Theon swears he feels his heart stutter.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” she answers and Theon doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound. At least, not until what she says next. “I love you, too, Theon Greyjoy.”


	12. Chapter 11

**Two Months Later**

A day and a half before Sansa and Theon’s wedding, Greyjoy banners appear on the horizon. The gates are opened and the Starks gather in the courtyard to greet the representatives of Theon’s family who have come to witness the ceremony. Theon had written to his father shortly after their engagement had been set, Sansa knows, inviting him to Winterfell with her father’s permission.

It wasn’t Balon Greyjoy that had written back but Theon’s older sister, Yara. Their father has no intention of leaving the Iron Islands, she’d informed them, and their mother isn’t well enough to make the journey, but Yara herself had promised to be there.

And here she is, dismounting her horse and glancing wearily about the courtyard. She’s wearing trousers, Sansa notes, and a long coat similar to the way her men are dressed. None of them look particularly friendly -- the word _grizzled_ comes to mind -- but Sansa puts on her best smile all the same. She’s heard that the Ironborn are a rough people, but they’re also _Theon’s_ people and she doesn’t want to make a bad first impression.

Theon, at Sansa’s side, steps forward, drawing his sister’s attention. He’s nervous, Sansa can tell, but there’s also a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Yara,” he says. “It’s good to see you.”

She slowly looks him over, eyes carefully taking in every inch of him from head to toe. Sansa can see the resemblance between them now, the same sandy blonde hair and blue-green eyes -- they really do belong to the sea.

“Little brother,” Yara finally replies, a hint of something Sansa thinks might be relief in her voice. “You look well.”

For the first time it occurs to Sansa that this may not have been a given for Yara. As far as she knows, they could have been keeping Theon locked in a dungeon for the past fifteen years.

“So do you,” Theon says, that smile pulling at his lips again. Then, seeming to remember himself, he turns to the family assembled behind him. “Lord and Lady Stark, may I present my sister, Yara Greyjoy.”

Sansa’s father gives her a warm smile. “Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Yara.”

“I remember you, Lord Stark,” Yara looks him up and down, stone-faced. “You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t get Lady’d very often and I never did master the curtsy.”

Sansa thinks she’s trying to be insulting but if her parents notice they don’t let on. Instead, Catelyn smirks, glances at her younger daughter, and replies, “Something with which we are not unfamiliar.”

Yara follows Catelyn’s gaze and Theon fills in, “Arya Stark. And next to her, her younger brothers, Bran and Rickon.”

Arya gives a tight smile but the boys seem more interested in eyeing the dangerous looking men who had accompanied Yara. 

“And this is Robb Stark,” Theon goes on, motioning to Sansa’s older brother next. “And his wife, Alys of House Karstark.”

Alys smiles and Robb gives a nod. “Good to meet you, Lady Yara.”

Yara nods back but instead of replying, her eyes slide over to Sansa. “So, that just leaves…”

Sansa meets Yara’s eye, keeping her head up, and doing her best not to look as nervous as she feels. Yara is the first member of Theon’s family Sansa has ever met and she doesn’t want to be found wanting in any way. She knows the Ironborn value strength -- especially in their women, and Yara in particular, she has a feeling -- so that is what she tries to be: strong in the best way she knows how. She holds Yara’s gaze, folds her hands neatly in front of her, and smiles.

Theon clears his throat. “Sansa of House Stark,” he introduces her. “My intended.”

“I’m so glad you could be here, Lady Yara,” Sansa tells her, voice even and polite despite her pounding heart.

She doesn’t look Sansa up and down the way she did her father, instead she keeps her eyes on Sansa’s face -- searching, judging. Sansa takes the opportunity to study her soon-to-be-sister as well.

She could be pretty but Sansa doesn’t think she’s the sort of woman who’s concerned with such things. Her gaze is hard, but not cruel, and even though they haven’t witnessed it yet, Sansa thinks she can easily see where a smile would fit on her face.

Sansa had already noticed that Yara looked weary but now she thinks she might almost be nervous, as well. She can’t blame her, she supposes. The Starks and the Greyjoys don’t have the most peaceful of histories and the alliance they’re currently trying to forge only came about because Yara’s family had lost a war. If the Starks were a less honourable house, Yara might be in some danger at Winterfell.

And yet she’s here all the same, standing before Sansa and deciding whether or not she’s worthy of her brother. She cares, Sansa realizes. She’s not here out of duty or obligation, she’s here because Theon is her little brother and she cares about him. That alone is enough to make Sansa feel a sudden rush of affection for her.

Perhaps Yara can see this, or perhaps she sees something else she approves of, because she gives Sansa a nod. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. I’m glad I could be here.”

She glances back at Theon, who isn’t trying to hold back his grin any longer, and Sansa sees her smile, just a bit. In that moment Sansa decides, for Theon’s sake if nothing else, she and Yara Greyjoy are going to be friends.

XxXx

“It’s quiet here,” Yara remarks later as she and Theon walk along the ramparts. The Starks had retreated back into the castle, giving Theon a chance to show his sister around Winterfell while also giving the siblings a few moments alone. “No waves crashing or gulls cawing. I don’t know how you stand it.”

They’ve come to a stop at the top of the walls, looking out over the vast, empty North. “I know. I could hardly sleep when I first arrived here,” Theon tells her with a chuckle. “But I’ve gotten used to it now.”

“So, they’ve treated you well, then?” she asks next, watching him closely. “These Starks?”

“They have,” Theon assures her. “Raised me as one of their own, more or less.”

Seeming to accept this, Yara nods. “Well, you don’t look like you’ve been chained or starved.”

Theon barks a laugh. “Is that what you honestly expected to find?”

“I had no idea what I’d find,” she replies bluntly. “You were a boy when our enemies took you away to be a hostage.”

“We were at war, Yara,” Theon sighs. “But the Starks aren’t our enemies, not anymore. They’re not bad people.”

She eyes him. “You believe that? Truly?”

“I _know_ that,” he insists. “The Starks have been as good as family to me.”

Yara scoffs. “Don’t let our father hear you say that.”

Theon doesn’t say what they both know -- he’ll never see their father again. This wedding was the last chance they might’ve had. Lord Balon won’t be invited to Winterfell again and Theon can’t leave -- certainly not back to the Iron Islands -- until he’s dead.

“And what of our mother?” he asks instead, changing the subject. In her letter, Yara had said Lady Alannys isn’t well enough to travel, but she hadn’t elaborated on what that meant.

Yara sighs. “Our mother hasn’t been the same since she lost all three of her sons in the course of a month. She sits in her room on Harlaw, staring out at the sea, hoping they’ll come back to her.”

Only Theon still can, of course, and only if his father dies first. For the first time in his life, Theon finds some small part of him hoping that happens sooner rather than later. It’s a terrible thing, to wish death upon his own father, but he can’t stand the thought of never seeing his mother again. He just hopes she outlives her husband.

But something else about what Yara said irks him. “Her room on Harlaw?” he asks. “Does she not live on Pyke?”

“Not for years now,” Yara replies. “I don’t think Father could stand the sight of her any longer. She reminds him of his failures.”

The Greyjoys have never been the most affectionate of houses, but still it breaks Theon’s heart a little bit to learn just how thoroughly they’ve fallen apart in the wake of his father’s rebellion. He’ll have some rebuilding to do once he’s Lord of Pyke and he’s just glad he’ll have Sansa by his side when he does.

Almost as though she can read his mind, Yara next says, “So, tell me about her, this wolf bride of yours.”

Theon rolls his eyes but he can feel his ears getting warm all the same. “Her name is Sansa.”

“Well, she’s certainly prettier than any girl you would’ve found in the Iron Islands,” Yara allows. “Do you actually care for her?”

Theon nods. “I do. That’s why we’re marrying.”

“You’re marrying because Robert Baratheon demands it,” Yara shoots back. “You’ve been betrothed to this girl since before you left home.”

“Maybe that’s how it started,” Theon shakes his head. “But that’s not how it is now.”

“So, it’s true love then, is it?” Yara scoffs. “And you think she has what it takes to be Lady Greyjoy?”

“She does,” Theon replies, no hesitation. He doesn’t like to hear his sister doubting Sansa. “You’ll see it, too, once you’ve had the chance.”

Yara studies him for a moment, like she’s carefully considering her next words. “I heard about what happened, you know,” she finally says. “What was his name? Umber?”

Theon’s brows knit in. “Where did you hear about that?”

“Port towns,” Yara shrugs. “You know how sailors like to talk. And a highborn girl running off with the son of her father’s bannerman? That’s news.”

Theon grits his teeth. “She didn’t run off with him. He took her by force.”

“Heard that version, too,” she nods, almost indifferent. “But when I heard she begged to have the man’s life spared I didn’t believe it.”

“There was no begging,” Theon shoots back, feeling his hand clench into a fist at his side. “She didn’t want a man to lose his head over her. It was mercy. Nothing more.”

“Mercy?” Yara questions, dubious. “And you believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Because it’s what she told you?”

“Because I was there,” he insists. “I could tell you about how I was the one who found her, tied to a post in Umber’s camp. Or would you just like to see the scar on my shoulder where one of his men put an arrow in me before they dragged her off, kicking and screaming?”

“They put an arrow in you?” she demands, angry. 

“Your port town gossips didn’t mention that?” he replies. “Aye, they shot me and beat me to a pulp. Likely would’ve died there in the mud if Robb hadn’t found me when he did.”

“And he was allowed to live?” Yara shakes her head. “They’ve a strange sense of justice here in the North. In the Isles we’d have tied to him a post on the beach and let him watch the tide roll in.”

“And Lord Stark fully intended to execute him, as well,” Theon explains. “It was Sansa who didn’t think that felt like justice. She suggested he take the Black instead, and let him make something of his miserable existence.”

Yara eyes him suspiciously. “And you’re sure she’s not in love with him?”

“Completely sure,” Theon replies drily. 

She smirks at him, a familiar teasing look in her eyes, and for the first time since she arrived Theon can truly see his sister in the woman standing before him. “Because she’s in love with you?”

“She is,” he says, doing his best to hold his sister’s gaze but feeling his ears warm all the same.

Yara gives a sharp nod. “Good. Then I’m happy for you, little brother.”

“Are you?” he can’t help but ask. “Truly?”

She sighs. “I won’t lie to you, Theon. There aren’t many in the Iron Islands who are keen on this match, our father least of all. And when you do return to Pyke, with a Stark wife at your side, things won’t be easy, especially for her.”

“She can handle it,” Theon insists.

“I hope so,” Yara replies. “But being Lord of the Iron Islands takes a toll. I don’t think our father has laid eyes on our mother for three years, at least.”

“That’s not how Sansa and I will be,” he tries to assure her.

“I hope not,” she says. “Our father is a miserable, angry old man. I wouldn’t want you to end up the same.”

Theon doesn’t know how he ever could, not with Sansa as his wife. They’ll be happy, he knows it. They love each other and they want to spend their lives together. Of course, the only lives they’ve ever known have been at Winterfell. Pyke will be something entirely different. 

The Ironborn won’t respect her because of her family name, in fact they’ll likely respect her less for it. Theon has been raised to be Lord of the Iron Islands since he was eight years old, but being Lady Greyjoy will be an uphill battle for Sansa.

She has it in her, he knows she does, but is it what she really _wants_? When she’d accepted him, had she thought through everything that meant? He can’t stand the thought of dragging her away from her beloved home and family only for her to be miserable on Pyke.

The brief moment of sentiment apparently too much for her, Yara has already turned away and started off down the ramparts again. She’s a few yards along the catwalk before Theon even notices and he quickly moves to catch up with her.

He’ll talk to Sansa about it, he decides. Tonight or tomorrow, before the wedding, while she still has a chance to change her mind.

XxXx

Something is wrong. Sansa doesn’t know what it is, but something is wrong. Theon hadn’t sat next to her at dinner and, as he’d opted to sit beside his sister instead, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except he’d barely been able to meet her eye across the table, either. 

After their meal, Yara, tired from the journey, had decided to go to bed and Theon had walked his sister up to her bedchamber, and Sansa hasn’t seen him since. He may have gone to bed as well but Sansa doubts it. Something is troubling him and when Theon is troubled there’s only one place he goes.

She hears the _thwip_ of arrows flying through the air before she even reaches the training yard. As she rounds the corner, the target comes into view first and she can see the erratic pattern of his shooting. Troubled, indeed.

Theon has his back to her and doesn’t see her as she approaches and leans against the railing that surrounds the training yard. She watches as he takes a few more shots, the closest of them landing at least six inches right of the bullseye.

He makes a noise of frustration, reaching up to rub at his left shoulder, and Sansa decides to clear her throat, making her presence known.

Theon spins on his heel, surprised. “Sansa.”

“Is something the matter?” she asks.

He sighs, glancing over his shoulder at the target behind him. Silently, he makes his way towards it and begins yanking the arrows back out of the straw. She watches him patiently, waiting.

Finally, he turns back to her and says, “There’s something I need to speak to you about.”

“Alright,” she replies, straightening. “So, speak.”

“Yara said something to me today,” he explains, dropping the arrows back into the quiver at his hip as he makes his way towards her. “Something I don’t know if either of us had really considered before.”

Sansa eyes him suspiciously, uneasy. “Does she not approve?”

“It’s not that,” Theon assures her. He’s come to a stop in front of her, the railing between them. “It’s just… are you absolutely sure this is what you want?”

“Of course it is,” she laughs before adding, for good measure, “I love you.”

Theon’s lips pull into a smile, seemingly in spite of himself as it’s gone a moment later. “And I love you, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

She looks at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“If you marry me you’ll have to leave Winterfell one day,” he explains. “And go to the Iron Islands.”

“I know that,” she rolls her eyes. “I’ve always known that.”

“Pyke isn’t like Winterfell,” he goes on. “It’s a hard place --”

“People say the same about the North,” she cuts him off. “Do you think I can’t handle it?”

“No!” he shakes his head quickly. “No, I’m sure that you can, in fact. I just don’t know if that’s what you want. It’s going to be a struggle, especially at first. The Ironborn aren’t exactly enamoured of House Stark.”

Sansa knows this, of course. Had her father not said essentially the same thing to her not too long ago? Still, hearing it from Theon is something different. To have him standing before her, telling her why they shouldn’t be wed, makes a lump rise in her throat.

She does her best to swallow it and can’t quite look him in the eye as she asks, voice low, “Do you not want to marry me anymore?”

“Sansa,” he murmurs, hands suddenly on either side of her face and forcing her to look up at him. “Of course I want to marry you. But only if you’ve thought it through. Only if you really want to marry me and everything that comes with that.”

She shakes her head at him, exasperated. “You’re such a fool sometimes, do you know?”

His brows knit in. “What?”

“Theon, this betrothal has existed since long before it was wanted,” she reminds him. “I’ve known you were going to take me away to the Iron Islands one day since I was eight years old. Of course I’ve thought it through.”

His eyes search her face for a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she insists. “Now are you going to kiss me or not?”

Theon smiles, huffing out a laugh, and does as he’s told.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the NSFW chapter.

There’s a jumbled up mess of nerves and excitement roiling in Theon’s belly and he doesn’t think he’s been so anxious in all his life. The day and a half before the wedding had gone by quickly, Jon Snow and Benjen Stark arriving the day after Yara, and tonight Sansa and Theon will be married in the Godswood.

As is tradition, the women have spent the day together, shut up in Lady Catelyn’s private chambers, and left the men to their own devices. Representatives have come from all the Northern houses -- even young Ned Umber, the new heir to the Last Hearth -- and the impatient Lords have taken it upon themselves to get the party started early. Already the ale has begun to flow, though Theon finds he can’t touch a drop.

Robb had tried to convince him that it would calm his nerves, but Theon is sure he wouldn’t be able to keep it down. Besides which, he knows Sansa will never forgive him if he turns up to their wedding drunk.

He’s glad of that decision now, as he stands beneath the Heart Tree, Robb at his side. Usually it’s the groom’s father that stands with him but Balon Greyjoy isn’t here and he likely wouldn’t approve of the custom if he was. Ironborn weddings take place by the sea but there is no sea in Winterfell and Sansa doesn’t follow the Drowned God, anyway. Theon doesn’t mind. He just wants to marry her, he doesn’t much care which gods watch him do it.

Sansa’s green velvet ribbon is tied around his wrist -- has been tied around his wrist every day since she put it there, if he’s being honest -- and he toys with it now, anxious. She’ll be appearing at any moment and, Gods, what a pathetic, lovesick thing he must be because he can hardly wait.

A hush falls over the Lords and Ladies assembled around them and all eyes turn to the lantern-lit path winding through the trees. Theon feels himself stand up a little taller, heart pounding in his ears, as Sansa comes into view around the bend, arm looped through her father’s.

For a moment, Theon forgets he’s supposed to breathe.

Sansa is beautiful. Her long, red hair is half done up in braids, half falling in soft curls across her shoulders. Her gown is white and something Theon hasn’t seen before. She’d been so excited about it, though she wouldn’t tell him why, insisting it be a surprise. He understands now as he sees the pearlescent beads embroidered into her skirt to look like crashing waves. They’ll be married by the sea, after all.

And at her throat is the necklace he’d bought for her in the Wintertown market, a little piece of the Iron Islands here at Winterfell.

She glows, and unlike the night he proposed, tonight it has nothing to do with the lanterns lighting her path.

When their eyes meet, Sansa smiles and suddenly it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t been drinking -- he feels light-headed, dizzy, and all he can do is grin like a fool back at her. There’s nothing else in the world right now but her, making her way towards him. She comes to a stop in front of him, eyes never leaving his.

Beside him, Robb steps forward. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“Sansa, of House Stark,” Lord Eddard replies. He glances at his daughter, warmth and a little bit of sadness in his eyes. “Comes here to be wed. A woman grown. Trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods.”

A pause, and he looks to Theon. “Who comes to claim her?”

Theon takes a breath and steps forward. “Theon, of House Greyjoy,” he says, voice steady despite his pounding heart. “Heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands. Who gives her?”

Lord Stark holds his gaze for a beat and nods. “Eddard, of House Stark. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“Lady Sansa,” Robb goes on, looking to his sister, a smile spreading across his face. “Do you take this man?”

Sansa steps forward as well, closing the distance between them so that he can reach out and touch her if he tries. With some effort, he keeps his hands at his sides. She looks into Theon’s eyes and gives him a smile that sends him off kilter in the best way possible.

“I take this man.”

XxXx

They stay at the wedding feast until the small hours of the morning, laughing and drinking and dancing. Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever been so happy in all her life.

Finally, though, it’s time for bed. Most of the guests -- her parents included, thankfully -- have already gone up but some of the younger revellers are still in the Great Hall when they finally rise from the table, Theon taking her hand and leading her towards the corridor. There are a few hoots and hollers as they leave, mostly from Torrhen Karstark who earns a smack from his sister, but Sansa pretends not to hear. She’s just glad her father refused to allow a bedding ceremony.

She’s nervous as they head upstairs, it would be useless to pretend otherwise. It’s her wedding night and she knows what comes next, what’s expected of her. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go to bed with Theon -- quite the opposite, if she’s being honest -- but she’s never done this before. 

What if she’s no good at it? What if she embarrasses herself? What if she’s a disappointment to him?

Theon is no innocent, she knows, though she’s never really minded it before. Perhaps she should but it’s difficult to muster the indignation when she’d spent those same years grateful that his attention wasn’t on _her_. Now, though, she finds it makes her anxious. Theon knows what he’s doing and she doesn’t. He’ll have expectations that she has no idea how to meet.

Her mother had spoken to her about it, of course. She’d explained the… _fundamentals_ and warned her that it might hurt, but when it comes to how it will actually happen, she’s at a loss.

They arrive at their chamber, the one they’ll be sharing from now on, and quietly slip inside. The candles are already lit, a fire crackling happily in the hearth, the bed made and waiting for them. Theon shuts the door behind them and leans his back against it, watching her where she stands in the middle of the room.

She turns to him but finds she can’t meet his eyes without feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want,” he tells her, voice soft.

She looks at him in surprise. “But it’s our wedding night.”

“I know,” he nods. “And we’ve got an entire lifetime ahead of us. There’s no rush.”

_Gods, she loves him._

“You want to, though,” she replies -- a statement, not a question. He swallows, nods, and looks at her with a hunger in his eyes that sends a shiver up her spine, though not in a bad way. She takes a step towards him, then another, until they’re just inches apart. “So do I.”

He lets out a breath. “You’re sure?”

She nods. “I’m sure.”

In the past two months, Theon has kissed her more times than she can count, but never like this. This kiss is desperate, unreserved, full of longing. She hadn’t realized before how much he’s been holding back but she sees it -- _feels_ it -- now.

He pulls her against him, hands bunching in the fabric of her gown as he tries to get her as close to him as possible. Still, as she wraps her arms around him, fingers tangling in his hair, it doesn’t seem close enough.

Carefully, he steps her backwards toward the bed, not breaking the kiss as he does. He’s wearing a fine doublet in the colours of his house and, despite her nerves, Sansa finds her fingers toying with the buttons, trying to get them undone. She can feel him smiling against her lips as his own hands come up to help her.

The garment is soon discarded, leaving Theon bare from the waist up and allowing Sansa to run her hands along the muscles of his chest. His skin is warm and softer than she’d expected and she feels him shiver and moan into their kiss as her fingers trail across his abdomen. 

They break apart, both panting, still close enough to share breaths and Theon toys with the hem of her dress, a question in his eyes. Slowly, she nods and his hands begin gently unlacing the bodice of her gown, their foreheads pressed together. 

Soon, her wedding dress has joined his doublet on the floor. Her underthings quickly follow, along with his trousers, and the next moment they’re standing before each other, completely naked.

She watches his face as his gaze slowly sweeps over her. When his eyes meet hers again they’re filled with a look of such awe it nearly takes her breath away.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing her again.

His hands are at her waist and her skin tingles wherever he touches her. She feels warm all over as he presses himself against her again, slowly lowering them down onto the bed. He keeps one arm wrapped around her, the other reaching out to cradle their descent and Sansa feels the soft furs tickling the skin of her back as she bends at the knees, allowing him to cover her body with his own.

Theon’s lips leave hers and begin trailing kisses down her neck, stopping here and there to nip and suck at her pale skin. She takes a shuddering gasp at the sensation that sends coursing through her and feels him chuckle softly against her throat.

He doesn’t seem to mind when she’s timid or unsure of what to do with her hands. At one point she bites back a moan and he must notice because he lifts his head, eyes finding hers.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs to her. “You’re allowed to enjoy this. I _want_ you to enjoy this.” She nods and he watches her with earnest eyes. “Promise you’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

Warmth swells in Sansa’s chest at his concern and one of her hands comes up to caress the side of his face. “I promise.”

He turns his head, kissing her palm, before leaning down, lips finding hers once more. Slowly, he begins making his way down her body once again, this time not stopping at her neck. His mouth finds one of her breasts, his hand the other, and she lets out a shuddering gasp at the shockwaves that sends through her. On instinct, she arches her back up, needing to feel him closer.

He continues his descent, pressing kisses into her stomach, until he’s slid completely off the bed and instead kneels on the floor between her legs. She props herself up on an elbow, unsure of what he’s doing, and he watches her through hooded eyes before turning his head and kissing the side of her knee. 

Slowly, almost torturously so, he kisses his way along the inside of her thigh, higher and higher, until Sansa gasps, falling back against the mattress once more. He kisses and sucks and flicks his tongue in a way that has her seeing stars.

Without thinking about it, she tangles a hand in his hair, the other desperately gripping at the blankets beneath her. She doesn’t realize she’s begun bucking up into him until he reaches up and steadies her hips with his hands, holding her in place.

She moans, loud, and when did she wrap her legs around him, heels digging into his back? It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters right now except the feeling of his mouth against her and the intense pleasure -- like nothing she’s ever known before -- swelling inside her. She can feel it all over, building and building until--

“Theon!” she whimpers. “Theon, I--!”

She has no idea what she’d been about to say and it doesn’t matter because just then that feeling bursts within her and for a moment the whole world goes white. 

When she finally manages to open her eyes again, heart still pounding in her chest, it’s to find Theon watching her with a sly, self-satisfied grin. His eyes, though, are something else entirely -- desperate, hungry, full of such longing it makes her breath catch.

Slowly, he makes his way back up her body, dropping kisses here and there like he can’t help it. Sansa’s hand is still tangled in his hair, though her grip has loosened. Every inch of her feels loose, relaxed, and she smiles lazily up at Theon when he reaches her eye level again.

“What was that?” she whispers, and her voice sounds far off and dreamy, even to herself.

He laughs, low and soft. “Something I plan to make you very familiar with.”

He dips his head and kisses her again, long and slow. She can taste herself on his lips and somehow that just makes her want him more. He kisses her until she’s breathless, until she starts to feel that warm, tingly _need_ bubbling within her once more.

Carefully, he positions his hips between her thighs, lips never leaving hers, and thrusts upward, sliding into her. It does hurt, though not as badly as she’d feared it would, more discomfort than actual pain. And Theon moves slowly, gently, letting her get used to the feeling.

Soon, though, his breathing turns ragged, his pace beginning to quicken. His lips stop moving against hers, as though he can’t focus on kissing her while he’s buried inside her.

“Sansa,” he breathes, _moans_ against her mouth. “Gods, Sansa.”

She keeps her eyes on his face, utterly fascinated as he unravels above her. The discomfort she’d felt has begun to subside now and she wraps her legs around him, her arms around him, cradling him close as he comes undone.

“I love you,” she murmurs in his ear, the only words on her tongue. “I love you.”

He groans, loud and shuddering, and his hips stutter against hers one last time before he finally stills. They stay that way for a long moment, pressed together, sharing breaths. Theon plants a few lazy kisses on Sansa’s face before propping himself up on an elbow and smiling softly down at her.

“You alright?” he whispers.

She nods, smiling back at him. “I am.”

“Good,” he says and kisses her one more time.

Pushing himself off of her, he moves up the bed and Sansa follows. He pulls back the now disheveled bedclothes and they climb beneath the covers together, Theon tucking the blankets back around them. He wraps his arms around her and she curls herself into his embrace, resting her head beneath his chin.

The last thing Sansa hears before she drifts off the sleep is Theon’s voice in her ear.

“I love you.”


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

It’s been a busy few months, what with the festival and two weddings, but now, with Lady Sansa and Lord Theon finally married, things around Winterfell should begin to calm down again. It’ll be a few days yet before all the wedding guests have left, but Marilla is very much looking forward to life getting back to normal.

At least, as normal as it can with two sets of young couples in the castle. There will be babes soon, surely. Marilla would be lying if she said she isn’t looking forward to it. She’s always loved the little ones but there haven’t been any at Winterfell since she was taken on. Old Nan has all sorts of stories about when Lord Stark’s children were young and Marilla thinks it’s high time these quiet stone corridors rang with laughter like that again.

It’s Marilla’s morning to fill the washbasins and she makes a point of leaving the newlyweds for last. With all the guest chambers occupied it takes her some time to get through them all and it’s nearly midmorning before she finds herself at their door.

The bucket in her hands is heavy and her arms are already beginning to ache from all the extra carrying she’s had to do but she pauses before reaching up to knock all the same. Pressing her ear against the wood she listens closely. When she doesn’t hear the sound of a creaking bed or heavy breathing she decides it’s safe, reaching up and rapping her knuckles against the door.

A beat, and then Lady Sansa’s voice. “Yes?”

“Water for the basin, m’Lady,” she replies.

“Come in,” Lord Theon’s voice calls back and Marilla has already pushed the door open before she hears Lady Sansa’s protest.

They’re still in bed, Marilla finds, Lady Sansa sitting up in surprise, the bedclothes pulled up around her otherwise bare chest. Her new husband lays beside her, also bare but less concerned with modesty, haired mussed and laughing.

“Apologies, m’Lady,” Marilla says quickly, eyes going wide.

Lady Sansa rolls her own and shoots her husband a glare, though Marilla thinks she’s trying not to smile. “It’s quite alright, Marilla. Thank you.”

Lord Theon, grinning, asks, “Are we too late for breakfast?”

“No, m’Lord,” Marilla tells him, making her way to the washbasin. “Not all the guests are up yet. Nobody downstairs expects to see Lady Alys’ brother until this afternoon.”

He barks a laugh and Lady Sansa says, “I suppose Torrhen had a bit too much fun last night.”

Her back is to them as she empties her bucket but Marilla doesn’t miss it when Lord Theon whispers, “He wasn’t the only one.”

“Theon!” Lady Sansa hisses back, scandalized. 

When Marilla turns back around, though, it’s to find them both smiling at each other, Lady Sansa a little flushed, Lord Theon with soft, dreamy eyes. Suddenly she feels as though she’s intruding on something, even more so than she did walking in on them in bed together.

She hates to interrupt but she also can’t leave without a dismissal so she quietly clears her throat, calling their attention away from each other and back to her. “Was there anything else, m’Lady? M’Lord?”

Lady Sansa smiles warmly at her, looking only a little embarrassed. “No, Marilla, that will be all. Thank you.”

She gives a short bow and speedily exits the room, hearing their laughter behind her as she closes the door. She can’t help but smile to herself as she makes her way back down towards the kitchens. The Starks have always been kind to their servants, but Lady Sansa most of all. And Lord Theon, for all his faults, is always quick with a smile or a joke or a wink.

A happy marriage between the two can only be a good thing for Winterfell, but Marilla doesn’t think that’s what has her so pleased. She likes them both, truth be told, and she’s happy that they’re happy.

“What are you smiling about?” Bree teases once she makes it down to the scullery. 

Marilla deposits her bucket in the corner and turns to her. “Don’t you think it’s a good morning for smiling?”

Bree laughs. “You’ve been up to their room, haven’t you? How are the future Lord and Lady Greyjoy?”

Marilla glances around the room, making sure no one else is paying them any mind, before leaning towards her friend and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I know we had our doubts, given Lord Theon’s… _habits_ , but they seem quite happy together.”

Bree nods. “I’ve noticed, as well, these past few weeks. You know he hasn’t snuck down to the village in more than two months?”

“I’m not surprised,” Marilla whispers back. “I think they may actually be in love.”

“Well, of course they’re in love,” Bree rolls her eyes. She’s a few years older than Marilla and has been working in the castle since she was a girl. She’s known the Stark children for years, practically grew up with them. “Those two have been half-gone on each other since I met them, though Gods know, it took them long enough to realize it.”

Marilla laughs but before she has a chance to respond, Old Nan has come hobbling into the scullery and both girls straighten up, the subject immediately at an end.

“Now, now, you two,” Old Nan says. “Stop your tittering and get to work. Lady Sansa and Lord Theon have come down to breakfast. They’ll be needing toast and sausage and eggs, runny the way he likes them, you know.”

“Aye, Old Nan,” Bree replies obediently and she and Marilla exchange one last smirk before setting about their work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's that. Thanks to everyone who read this fic, left kudos on it, or took the time to comment. I know this is a short little epilogue, but I hope you liked it all the same.
> 
> I'd like to give one more shoutout to tumblr user [kathe-is-a-shipper](http://www.kathe-is-a-shipper.tumblr.com) for the prompt that launched 48, 000 words.
> 
> And one last thing: [I've made a post over on my tumblr](https://twinedjupiters.tumblr.com/post/185981102001/more-im-about-to-post-the-final-chapter-of) going into more detail about this for anyone who'd like to read it, but the short version is that I've had a really bad couple of weeks recently and all of the kind messages and comments I've received about this fic in that time have all been very, very much appreciated. So, thank you for that.


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